


Don't Look Back

by kuroimyuutsu



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Eventual Romance, Fluff, For just the lemonade skip to chapters 6 9 &10, Friendship/Love, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Pining, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, a lot of trains, an otaku roommate, california girls - they're unforgettable, creative names for men's fragrances, love is nothing like stomach flu, never trust oikawa with the gps, or the car bluetooth, paintings of fruit aren't boring, tohru and iwa-chan vs. bullies and cicadas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuroimyuutsu/pseuds/kuroimyuutsu
Summary: Back in elementary school, Oikawa had once pulled on my jersey in the middle of an official match as we were getting into position.“Run for the net, Iwa-chan,” he had whispered, “And don’t look back. I’ll be right beside you. I’ll find a way.”Hajime Iwaizumi has hit a rough patch. After leaving the university volleyball team and breaking up with his girlfriend, he boards a train bound for the thing that’s always remained constant in his life: his charming, ambitious, volatile and often infuriating best friend, Tohru Oikawa, a rising volleyball star attending university an hour away. But Hajime soon learns that not even Oikawa is quite as he remembers him– and must decide whether it’s finally time to leave the beloved past behind.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 55
Kudos: 93





	1. On the Train

**Author's Note:**

> Short story containing very minor spoilers for the last chapter of the manga (though it doesn’t follow that storyline exactly - hence the AU), but as of the time I’m writing this, I have not personally read the manga except specifically to find out what happens to them after high school. There are anime spoilers up to the end of Season 2 but I’ve tried to keep all spoilers to a minimum. Please be nice! This is my first Haikyuu!! fanfic :3
> 
> my twitter: @KMyuutsu
> 
> Cover image commissioned from tnkisu on tumblr.

Saturday morning, as the train lurched out of the tunnel into milky daylight, I fumbled to unlock my phone and dialed Oikawa’s number one-handed. My other hand gripped the metal handlebar harder than necessary, even with the train car whizzing around curves, buffeting passengers into each other. The city flashed through the windows at the speed of my half-formed thoughts. 

After a brief pause, the call went through, and the mechanical ringtone sang in my ear. 

Two rings. The train bumped and tossed. 

I glared at the cartoon man on the etiquette poster warning you not to run, litter, listen to loud music, or talk on your cell phone. Then I threw a nervous glance at the other passengers hoping they hadn't yet noticed.

The train was packed for a Saturday. Suit-jackets lay draped over salarymen asleep against the scratched window, their phone alarms set for their stops. A mother held the wrists of two boys wearing plastic Doraemon backpacks, all three of them in red polka-dot face masks. University students. Seniors. A white guy towering over everyone else, for now drawing more curious stares than I. 

That’s Tokyo for you.

Three rings. Four. 

_Damn it, Oikawa, if you make me listen to your dumbass voicemail message–”_

“Uh...Hello?”

The voice on the line was husky and muffled.

“Oikawa,” I said in as loud a whisper as I dared, “I just got on the Keiou line from Toyoda. I’ll be at Nakano Station in forty minutes. Can you meet me there?”

From Oikawa’s side there was a sleepy groan and some shuffling. I could imagine him rolling over in bed and consulting his alarm clock.

“Iwa-chan,” he grumbled, “It’s 6:34 A.M. You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I’ll explain later,” I promised hurriedly, “Can you make it or not? Because if you can’t, then I’ll just meet you–”

“No, no,” he yawned. I could the faint clink of a belt buckle and the scraping of belongings being gathered into pockets. “I’ll meet you at Nakano. If you–”

The train lurched. I let go of the handlebar long enough to catch a puny salaryman who had lost his balance and tumbled headlong into me as we rounded another bend. After righting him precariously beside me like a stack of folded laundry, I retrieved my handlebar and lifted the phone to my ear again.

“Sorry, I lost you for a second. What did you say?”

“I said, if you’d called earlier, I’d have left by now.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t decide I was coming until, uh, a few hours ago.”

A crackling through the phone as Oikawa snorted in disbelief.

“Jeez, Iwa-chan! Are you in love with me or something? Is this going to be a train station confession?”

“In your dreams,” I snapped.

“Should I go back and put on a tie?”

“Should I kick your ass?” I retorted straight into the mic, and at this point realized I had stopped whispering long ago. I hung up on Oikawa. Then, ignoring the glares from the other passengers, I thumbed through my phone, pulled up my call history, and tapped the second name on the list after his.

 _Calling Mina Kobayashi_ , announced the little white characters on the screen.

Straight to a mechanical male voice directing me to voicemail. She didn’t even have a message recorded. Anyway, it was probably rude to call her this early.

Oikawa wasn’t at Nakano Station when the train pulled in. I swam through the crowds until I miraculously found a free bench. He appeared about fifteen minutes later, during which time I’d written Mina two long, rambling text messages she’d yet to read. 

“Sorry I’m late, Iwa-chan.”

He was holding two cups of milk tea. One was already halfway empty. The other one he offered to me. 

“Don’t be. And thanks.”

I took the drink from him and tossed my arm around his shoulders. He was taller than I remembered. Then again, it had been a couple of months.

He took my backpack and shouldered it as we walked back to the platform.

“You look terrible,” he observed, “Didn’t you sleep last night?”

I rubbed my temples morosely.

“Not too much. I broke up with Mina.”

“Who? Oh– the girl you told me about last year?”

“Yeah, her.”

We rode three stops on the Tozai line to get to Totsuka station and then walked ten minutes to get to Oikawa’s apartment in Shinjuku, a two-bedroom he shared with a pasty otaku named Sugiyama. 

The funny thing was, prior to last night, things had been going really well with Mina. We had just seen a movie we both liked, and then stopped in my favorite udon restaurant afterward. We had actually been talking about moving in together next semester, and had plans to go apartment hunting the following weekend.

Halfway through her noodles, Mina had set her chopsticks down.

“Done already?” I'd asked her. I’d already finished my own bowl, but still wasn’t quite full. 

She nodded, stirring the broth with her spoon. 

“I’m really glad we’ll be living together,” she said.

“Me too. The rent’ll be way better. And we can finally–”

And that’s when she said it.

“Yes. We can finally come home to each other every day, _Iwa-chan_.”

I froze, my hand still halfway across the table trying to steal the remainder of her udon. I had been about to say, _and we can finally get in-unit laundry._

It was at that very moment the heretical thought filled my mind:

Y _ou’re not the one I want to come home to every day._

And I felt disgusted with myself. In my head, I sounded like the kind of guy you'd tell your sister not to date. The kind of guy who walks away from a good thing as soon as it's sitting right in front of him. 

“Hajime,” said Mina, concerned, “What is it?”

“I–” I spluttered, “I don’t think…”

And then, inexplicably, scenes from throughout my life played before me as though from a broken VR headset: an elementary school volleyball tournament; Oikawa’s sweaty little face beside me, shouting, _run, Iwa-chan–!_

Middle school, his nose bloody after I headbutted him for almost hitting Kageyama.

High school, crying on the bus after we’d lost, yet again, to Shiratorizawa High. 

High school, in the changing room after morning practice, his hands sliding up me in the silence–

“Hajime,” said Mina again, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Slowly, I leaned back in my chair and pushed it away from the table.

“I don’t think this is going to work, Mina.”

She was barely more shocked than I was when I said that.

“What? You mean, the apartment?”

“No. Us. You and me, together.”

“Are you…” then realization dawned in her big, dark eyes, “You’re breaking up with me.”

It wasn’t a question. She was telling me what I myself hadn’t fully grasped yet.

“Mina,” I said, “I am so, so sorry.”

She made a small, sad choking noise as she fought back tears.

“Maybe you’d better go,” she said, her voice high with suppressed heartbreak.

“Mina–”

“Now, please.”

Numbly, I withdrew three thousand-yen notes from my wallet and put them on the table. It was all I had, and still wouldn’t quite cover the full amount. It was like the gods were getting off on my humiliation. I fled the restaurant with my tail between my legs. Wandered the city in a daze before finally going home. Compulsively cleaned my apartment. And then…

“And then, it was three in the morning. I packed a bag. And a few hours later I took the first train,” I finished, setting my empty mug down on Oikawa’s black Ikea coffee table. My hair was still wet from the shower. Oikawa had made tea.

From the other end of the futon couch, Oikawa whistled in pity.

“Oh, Iwa-chan,” he sighed, “You’re awful. Why did you decide to dump her right then and there?”

I said nothing. The part where Mina had called me ‘Iwa-chan’–his pet name for me– the part where I had suddenly remembered those few sweaty, desperate moments in the changing room– I’d obviously left that out of my story. 

“Anyway, “ said Oikawa, “We’ll figure it out, okay? Don’t worry. Let’s go eat something. Anything but udon.”

We left the apartment at two. All the way to lunch, he caught me up to his life. He was still playing volleyball, of course. The team was meeting up tomorrow for an unofficial early practice. He thought I might like to meet some of the other guys later today. I nodded, agreeing to plans to which I was only half-listening. I was thinking about Mina, at first. And then I thought about Oikawa– about the life he was living on his own, evidently doing just fine.

When we’d left for school, Hachiouji and Totsuka had seemed so close to each other: just an hour by train, compared to the three it took to get from Sendai to Tokyo. We had promised to see each other every weekend, at first. Then we had promised to call. Then, eventually, even the text messages came just once a day.

Why hadn’t I realized before it was too late? When we were little, I used to walk through the front door to find him already waiting for me on the couch, holding out a Nintendo controller. 

I mean, Oikawa and I were still friends. We always would be.

But we would never again come home to each other. 

I remember the day he left for university; the noise of the train station on the gray afternoon.

As _BOARDING_ flashed across every sign in bright green LED characters, he'd started crying on the platform. That dumbass had really been about to miss his train. So, finally, I'd taken him by the scruff of his neck. Walked him to his seat past the protesting guard. Wrestled his suitcase into the luggage compartment, and then pulled a half-squashed milk bread out of my pocket. 

“Eat this later so you don’t get hungry, okay?”

He had wiped his eyes on his shoulder and nodded.

“Call me, Oikawa. As soon as you have reception again. I’ll pick up right away.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

The train had given a pneumatic hiss. I'd wrenched myself out of his arms and darted through the doors just before they slammed shut behind me. When I turned around, the train had already lumbered into motion.

Then, alone on the platform, I had watched the loud metal animal take him into his future, and out of mine. 

Oikawa’s teammates joined us toward the end of lunch. We ordered more beers and pulled up chairs. 

“We’ve heard a lot about you, Iwaizumi-san,” said a goateed guy with a crew cut, whose name was Makoto Ito.

“Makoto’s our left-wing spiker,” explained Oikawa, “He’ll be at practice tomorrow. You’ll come too, won’t you?”

“I’m looking forward to it, Iwaizumi-san,” said Ito, “You two grew up together, right? I want to see whether you’re really as amazing as Oikawa says.”

Oikawa blushed.

"Makoto-chan!" he protested.

“I’m not as good as I used to be,” I explained, “I stopped playing a few months ago.”

If Oikawa’s teammates were surprised to hear this, they didn’t show it. 

“It’s just for fun,” they insisted, “Not as serious as that.”

At their repeated insistence, I finally promised I’d be there the next morning. They cheered and raised their half-empty beer cans to me. 

So this was Oikawa's team. They were the ones who now had to put up with his cutesy nicknames and pointless primping. He probably drank with them on Fridays. They probably walked to class together in packs, wearing matching warmups. 

And then I wondered whether I would be the only one clinging to the past long after everyone else had moved on: caught in the stream of time, forever seventeen, chasing after the heels of a best friend who had already run far ahead.

We loafed on the streets of Shinjuku for the rest of the afternoon, dallying at all of the usual tourist spots: the art museum, the shrines where tourists milled with their iPhone cameras drawn, the wide, straight path through the parks lined with maples just tinged with yellow. Before the sun had even set, we were yawning. My body felt the lack of sleep from last night, and Oikawa was tired from waking up so early to pick me up.

Remembering the early practice the next morning, we went to sleep early. We flopped in relief onto Oikawa’s bed, and then briefly fought over the dark blue duvet. Eventually we found a way to share if we both lay on our sides facing the same direction, like canned eels. The lights went off, and as Oikawa fell asleep, he muttered, “I’m happy you’re here, Iwa-chan,” and pulled my arm around himself. 

At least in his sleep, his body remembered how to moor itself into mine. My eyelids growing heavy, I held him. 

We’d been doing this for as long as I could remember– ever since we’d started staying over at each other’s places. And we’d done other, weirder, things in private that we never really told anyone about. Sure, it had gotten out of hand that time in the changing room, but usually this stuff was fairly innocent if unusual. Like the fact we still clutched each other as we slept even when we were well into our teens. I leaned my cheek on the back of Oikawa’s neck, and the synthetic fragrance of his shampoo filled my head as I fell asleep.

Every once in a while, when I thought of Oikawa, I thought of the words I hadn’t said to him when he left for university. Perhaps would never say to him at all. I saw their shape in my mind’s eye when my eyes were closed, heard them and maybe didn’t hear them when I asked myself questions I didn’t want answered.

Now, as the sights of the world faded away, the words resurfaced and repeated themselves over and over in my head.

The words, of course, were:

_I love you. I love you. I love you._


	2. Why I Stopped Playing Volleyball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, enjoy!  
> Twitter: @KMyuutsu

Sunday morning practice was pretty relaxed. They ran their warm-ups– driving through their hundred push-ups, every tenth number shouted aloud in smart unison– in a cadence more methodical than frenetic. As I set out flimsy plastic cones and distributed jerseys, some of the guys spun off into passing drills.

For an hour and a half, I watched them, every once in a while running after a stray ball, or throwing some some lobs for the setters. It was easy to see how good they were, even during this unofficial practice; how much they loved the sport. Totsuka hadn't been top in the league the last three years for nothing.

A little sadly, my eyes followed the arcing serves, the heroic dives, the coordinated blocks. The black knee pads crisscrossing on a dozen pairs of legs in motion: running, pivoting, leaping. 

At the end, they roped me into a scrimmage match. 

My body rose from the aluminum bench, clunky and stale, a car that's been sitting in the garage too long. I jogged once around the gym while they assigned teams, mentally praying I wouldn't embarrass myself, and Oikawa, in front of his entire university team. 

Ito volunteered to keep score. I softened my knees and stood ready in the left position. At once it felt so natural that my nervousness abated for a moment. On the other side of the net, Number Ten, a tall middle-blocker, sent a beautiful serve across, just a millimeter above the net. The guy behind me received it, hopping back on his heels to offset the momentum. As the ball sailed upward, a familiar thrill ran up and down my spine. 

It was ours. 

Oikawa closed the distance between himself and the falling ball in three easy strides. 

One: the rangy muscles in his legs tensed; the brown eyes opened wide and scanned the court, absorbing every grain of information in an instant.

Two: a half step to the right to load his body like a coiled spring.

Three: he looked straight at me.

 _Shit_. 

What once was automatic now had to filter through my layers of stagnant neurons; it took me a full second to move my limbs after my brain gave the command. Too late, I ran toward the net. My body was so much clumsier than I remembered. I jumped. It felt like swimming through syrup. 

But Oikawa had registered the delay, had anticipated the diminished jump height. His toss arced toward me so gently that a middle schooler could have hit it. Perfect. I smacked the ball down and miraculously it flew straight into the floor, missing the libero’s fingers by a hair. 

“Nice!”

Makoto flipped the scorecard. 00-01.

I glanced quickly over at Oikawa, wondering if anyone had noticed that I’d meant to aim a full three ball-widths closer to line. He winked at me as if to say, _don’t worry about it_. 

We showered back at his apartment. He let me go first, which was considerate of him, because he always took forever. I lingered on the futon couch in the common area, flicking absently through my phone. Mina still hadn’t responded to any of my texts. In the background, the steady stream of the shower hissed on. 

Seriously, how did anyone take this long? Soap. Shampoo. Rinse. Five minutes at most.

“Oikawa,” I yelled toward the closed door, “Did you drown?”

I don’t think he heard me. But soon after, I heard a doorknob squeak from the other end of the apartment, and a bedroom door open. Then Sugiyama, the roommate, emerged for the first time.

“Sorry to wake you,” I said as he dallied in the living room and looked me up and down.

Sugiyama was round all over like a taro bun. He even had scanty, unshaved stubble that reminded me of the black sesame seeds sprinkled on top.

“No worries. I was already awake. I’m Ichiro Sugiyama. Nice to meet you.”

“Hajime Iwaizumi. Nice to meet you.”

A slight widening of sleepy eyes behind square glasses.

“Oh! You’re _Iwa-chan_ , eh?”

I was starting to wonder how many of Oikawa’s friends knew me by that name.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

Sugiyama crossed through the living room and into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, gazed inside for a full minute, and finally settled on a fizzy blue drink. As he turned to return to his bedroom, where a flashing PC game sat waiting, the shower finally turned off.

Then Oikawa appeared in a cloud of steam, a fluffy white towel around his waist. His neck and back were rosy from the hot water. 

From across the room, I could make out the outline of the birthmark on his left shoulder. I looked quickly back down at my phone.

“Good morning, Sugiyama-san,” Oikawa said.

“Hey, Oikawa-san. How was practice?”

“It was good. Iwa-chan came, too.”

“Oh yeah, you used to play together, didn’t you?”

“Yep. Ever since we were kids.”

I was irrationally annoyed at Sugiyama. Why would he choose this moment to abandon his _League of Legends_ tournament? Why now, when Oikawa was exactly one unit of towel-friction away from being totally naked? 

“How long will you stay in Totsuka, Iwaizumi-san?” he now asked me.

My heart thudded impatiently against my ribcage.

“Just for the weekend. I’m heading back to Hachiouji this evening.”

I started to get a headache. I wished Sugiyama would go away. I wished Oikawa would get dressed. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Sugiyama ambled back into his bedroom, which was pitch dark except for the neon glow of his backlit gaming keyboard. Oikawa grinned at me.

“Pass me that shirt, won’t you, Iwa-chan?”

I snatched up the button-down draped over the futon couch and hurled it at him. He only laughed and retreated into his bedroom as he put it on, humming.

I had an essay I needed to email the professor by evening. Backpack-laden, we made our way over to the main library and stopped by a coffee shop for breakfast.

“Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa, “Have you ever thought about re-joining the volleyball team at Hachiouji?”

I studied the menu, trying to decide between a skim latte and a drip coffee. Hearing his question, I hesitated.

“Would you be angry if I said ‘no’?”

“Of course not,” said Oikawa, too quickly. And then we were next in line.

I’d started out playing ball at university.

I made the starting lineup my first year, after the senior left-wing spiker had graduated. It was more intense than high school volleyball had been, but I liked it. Hachiouji had been finalists at the University Champs last December and were hoping to win it this year with some new blood. 

I was excited when August rolled around, wondering if we would get any talented walk-ons willing to train until they puked so we could finally beat Totsuka. 

But the one kid who stuck around through our brutal tryout practices would go on to change my life, almost instantaneously, for the worse.

He introduced himself as Shikichi. I remember thinking at first what an interesting coincidence it was: his name matched the one on the sign in front of the new gymnasium. Right away, he announced that he wanted to play left-wing spiker.

 _Sure, champ_ , I remember thinking, _Don’t we all?_

It didn’t take long for us to piece together the reason that Shikichi’s name was all over the new gym. His father had donated the funds for the building, and for half the athletic program. 

Shikichi was decent at the basics, and had a surprising amount of grit for a rich kid. But he was clearly still a novice. It was obvious he should have started out on the bench, and then maybe by Spring be allowed more playing time if he continued to improve. 

On the last day of tryout practice, he flubbed a receive, requiring Tamura, the second-year libero, to scramble toward the careening ball and save it, only for the third hit to send the ball listing lamely over the net. It was immediately blocked, ending the set. 

I tapped his shoulder as we went to get water.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said, “Next time, take another step instead of diving right away. It gives you more control.”

Shikichi turned to face me, water bottle in hand, and coldly smiled. 

“Actually, Iwaizumi-san,” he said, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He led me a short distance away from the other players and lowered his voice.

“My dad can get you a good job, you know. Right after university. With a high starting salary, a signing bonus, and everything.”

The back of my neck prickled.

“Thanks,” I replied, “But I haven’t really decided what kind of career I want, yet.”

Shikichi wouldn’t let it go.

“All I’m saying is,” he said, “I think he could really help you. We could work something out. Just tell him what kind of job you want. He knows people.”

My unease grew stronger. I could guess what he was getting at.

“You’ve played left-wing spiker for a year, haven’t you?” he pressed on, “Don’t you think it’s someone else’s turn?”

When he said that, I was livid enough to forget my fear.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, “That’s not how it works. Get better than me first. Then we’ll talk about taking over my position.”

I brushed past him and jogged back to join the others. 

Oikawa and I had attended a private high school. I was used to brats like Shikichi getting what they wanted. I’d seen countless disciplinary records close forever as wallets opened. Whole weeks of classes excused to accommodate vacations to Fiji. 

Somehow, I’d been naïve enough to think the volleyball court was sacred ground– that no one could buy his way in with anything but skill and dedication. 

I bristled with the audacity of Shikichi’s proposition as I gathered my things and left the gym with the others. Why would he have come to me? I wasn’t the one who decided what the starting lineup would be. The only logical explanation was that he’d gone to the coach first, and had been turned down. 

That was good news, at least. He could wave his father’s money around as much as he wanted to, but if the coach didn't give in either, then there’s no way the little bastard could steal my spot, was there?

Early the next week, the final lineup was posted on the gym door. I stood there, staring in disbelief, long after everyone else had left. 

A single sheet of A4 paper flapped defiantly against the strips of tape holding it in place: a few lines of generic, thirty-two point font that neatly ended the fourteen years I’d spent chasing volleyball. I was glad no one was around to see the tears burning my eyes. 

It wasn’t just my starting position I’d lost. My name wasn’t on the sheet at all. 

I knew it wasn't a mistake. I knew I’d been defeated.

Even so, I splashed water on my face from the drinking fountain and entered the athletic building just next to the gym, looking for my coach’s office. The halls were lined with glass cases filled with bronze plaques and medals, and black and white photos dated 1936, 1945, 1961...

Everyone in the photos was long gone or dead by now. Men and women who had once been a part of something wonderful– something I had, up until now, taken completely for granted.

I suddenly felt like one of them: never to play competitive volleyball again, except in those grainy, faded photos. 

The coach had been expecting me. His usual gruff, sergeant-like demeanor had dissolved into a mixture of pity and guilt that didn’t suit him at all. 

“I’m sorry, Iwaizumi-kun,” he said, “It came from above me.”

“Can’t you do anything?” I pleaded.

He shook his head, ashamed.

“I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but they implied they might replace me if I didn’t agree to their terms. Forgive me, Iwaizumi-kun. I can’t afford not to have a job right now.”

It was the answer I'd expected. Alone, I retreated toward the exit of the building, this mausoleum of amateur sports careers, this place where decisions about what happened on the divine place called the volleyball court were made in so many Word documents and stuffy emails. 

He was there, just by the door. The timing was so impeccable that I’m sure he must have watched me, followed me, waited for me. My blood began to boil. I didn’t trust myself to look at him. I tried to walk past, but he moved to block my path to the door. 

“I guess I win this round, Iwaizumi-san,” he said in a revolting voice that I think was meant to sound sportsmanlike. 

“Please let me through.”

“You should have taken me up on my first offer. Then you’d at least have a seat warming the bench for me.”

_I know. I know. Damn you, that part’s obvious._

“What do you want from me, Shikichi?”

Honestly, I was so desperate at that point that I would have done almost anything he asked. But Shikichi only gave me a sly, triumphant look, relishing the fact he had me cornered.

“You know, I read about you once in _Volleyball Monthly_ back in high school. The article was about Tohru Oikawa, of course. But you were mentioned about fifteen times... _‘If Oikawa is called Alexander the Great, the Iwaizumi is surely his right-hand man, Hephaestion.’_ Can you believe they actually printed that? You really aren’t anything without Oikawa, are you?”

He laughed. I bristled, my fingernails digging into my palms, willing myself not to punch him. He leaned in close enough for me to smell the bitter mixture of cigarettes and spearmint on his breath. 

And then he said something about Oikawa and me, something stinging and malicious and cruel that I will never forget. 

I have never hated anyone as much as I hated him then. My vision blurred. I was so stunned that I couldn’t even move to strike him, which was good, as it probably would have gotten me thrown out of school. I have no idea how I managed to walk past him and out the door that day, or how I made it all the way back to my apartment before I broke down in impotent sobs. 

There, a hopelessness overtook me– not just because of volleyball, though that was all I could think about at first– but because the whole world was controlled by men like Shikichi’s father: faceless, towering figures with infinite bank accounts, to whom your life was a doll house, whose flimsy furniture they could move into the arrangement most pleasing to them.

I'd spent every summer of my life practicing passes until my arms were raw. Given every weekend to away games. The love for something that only comes if you give your soul away - how could they understand that, let alone care? If not for my own grief, I would have pitied them.

In the weeks to come, I focused on my studies. I tried to convince myself it was time to grow up; that now was as good a time as any to leave volleyball behind and start thinking of the future. In the end, it was still just a game.

But losing the team also meant that I lost my circle of friends. I used to eat with them every day after practice, but I couldn't do that now. I ignored their text messages, unable to face them. I bought the calories I needed from convenience stores and returned to my apartment to avoid being seen alone in the cafeteria. 

Every time my mind was idle, the ugly word that Shikichi had used to describe Oikawa would echo through my thoughts.

What if he’d decided to ruin the people close to me, too? My best friend, my parents? I began to have trouble sleeping.

I told no one about any of this, not even Mina. But it didn’t take Oikawa long to find out. It was as simple as the fact I never showed up to the Eastern Selection Championship at the end of August. I'd dutifully answered the phone call I’d been expecting for three weeks.

“Hello.”

“What the fuck, Hajime?” said Oikawa, who only used my name when he was really mad at me, “What’s the point of beating your team if you’re not here? Why didn’t you say anything?”

The only way I knew to respond to his accusatory tone was with defiance. 

“You should have guessed, moron. When’s the last time I mentioned having to go to practice, or a game? I quit a month ago. I just… didn’t want you to know right away.”

There was a crackling silence on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, the open sadness in his voice was the worst of all.

“What do you mean, you quit volleyball?”

“Look, Oikawa,” I said, “I’m just not as good as you are, okay? It was swell playing with you in high school, but I was never, you know, _world-class_ , like you. I was never planning on going pro, so I decided to take an extra year to figure my life out.”

Oikawa sighed over the phone. I imagined him reeling, trying to accept what I’d told him. 

“Yeah. Okay, I get it. I just wished you’d said something.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just… I always thought we’d do this together, you know? I had this vision, somehow, of you and me, taking on the world.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

It’s what I told myself whenever I missed him.

It felt almost silly now, the promise we made to each other after we lost our last high school match to Karasuno. We’d cross paths again in the future, someday, on a higher stage than ever. We would forever push ourselves to greater and greater heights, just like we always had. But maybe that's the kind of lie people tell themselves in order to live.

Maybe sometimes, things just end.

“It’s going to be all right, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa finally, “We’ll still be the same.”

But afterward, Oikawa and I spoke even less than we had before. It was like we occupied two separate realms now: one was the world of volleyball; the other, a wasteland of contracts and salaries and gray office cubicles and ill-fitting suits.

The world that was waiting for me. 

Back in elementary school, Oikawa had once pulled on my jersey in the middle of an official match as we were getting into position. 

“Run for the net, Iwa-chan,” he had whispered, “Don’t look back. I’ll be right beside you. I’ll find a way.”

Sure enough, he had been there every time, his little pink tongue poking out of his mouth in intense concentration as he set the ball from his tiny height. He had never let me down. And now, because of me, because I couldn’t swallow my pride long enough to give Shikichi what he wanted, it was over sooner even than we had expected.

I think it’s one of the reasons I needed to find Oikawa, one last time.


	3. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes... enjoy!  
> Twitter - @KMyuutsu

I finished my essay in the late afternoon and handed it in a few hours early. I’ve never been amazing at school, but over the last few weeks, I’d actually become a better student than I had ever been, now that I no longer had volleyball to turn me from my racing thoughts. 

I stretched and checked the time on my phone.

“I should probably figure out what train to take back to Hachiouji,” I said begrudgingly. 

Oikawa looked up from his Statistics homework. He’d copying figures over from one sheet of paper to another. I absently admired his handwriting. The numbers were large and confident, and his English letters looped at the tops like ribbons: _23.5 km. 50%. 3.6 miles per hour._

“What time were you thinking of going?”

I zoomed in on the timetable on my phone. 

“I should be all right if I catch the eight-thirty. Is it okay if I stay until then? Maybe we can get dinner.”

He set his pen down and studied me, folding his hands. 

“Don’t take the eight-thirty,” he said.

“Well, all right,” I said scrolling to the left, “But then the next one’s not till–”

Oikawa reached across the table and put his long fingers over the screen. 

“Don’t go, Iwa-chan,” he said, “Stay with me.”

Was he serious? I had two lectures the following morning, and…

And what? Neither had mandatory attendance. The notes would even be posted online. The only thing I really had show up for was my Physiology quiz which wasn’t until–

“Wednesday,” I blurted out, “I can stay… until Wednesday.”

And then I froze. 

He’d been kidding, hadn’t he? We were going to have dinner, and he was going to see me off, and I was going to go back to school like I was supposed to. He hadn’t actually offered to host me for another two days. 

To my relief, he smiled a smile equal parts satisfaction and excitement. It had always been hard for him to hide it when he really wanted something. Even harder for him to conceal the glee of actually getting it.

“Cool,” he said, “That’s really cool.”

“Yeah.” 

Now I was smiling too. 

ø

We went out for sake after dinner. Crowded into two seats at the bar, we clinked our little cups together and drank the sweet, spicy liquor. A few minutes in, my cheeks started to warm. I caught a faint pink glow on Oikawa’s face, too.

“So,” he said, “About the girl you left at the udon restaurant–”

“Mina,” I said, swirling the sip of clear liquid at the bottom of my cup, “It’s like– and how do I put this? In some ways, I think she was perfect, so… it’s strange, because things just never seemed right.”

Oikawa overlapped his fingers around his cup. 

“What do you mean?” he asked mildly. Something in his tone suggested that he already knew what I was going to say. 

“Well,” I said, and my cheeks grew hotter for reasons that had nothing to do with the sake, “Um, like when we slept together. I mean, it was fine. Good, at first. And then… I don’t know. First, she started making excuses, and then I did. It was like we were always a half second out of step. I guess, come to think of it, we’d been having issues for a while.”

“Do you still love her?”

I refilled my cup halfway and emptied the rest of the ceramic bottle into Oikawa’s, considering the question. 

“It’s complicated,” I said, “Sometimes I think I do, and sometimes I think I never did. I think maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

Oikawa was quiet for a moment. His eyes had gone sweetly hazy with the drink. The fluorescent lights settled on his long eyelashes. 

“I’ve never been that far with a girl before,” he admitted, “So I’m not quite sure what that must be like. But, it sounds difficult, Iwa-chan.”

 _Interesting,_ I thought.

I tried to hide my surprise, tickled by the reality of someone like Oikawa being a virgin. Sex was, I had discovered, somehow both more, and less, important, than everyone said. After all, how could a few panting, fumbling moments really turn a cherry-boy into a man? 

Yet, I _had_ felt different after having sex for the first time.

 _So that’s the big secret_ , I’d thought, lying in that mixture of exhilaration and disgust, _That’s what everything’s about._ And– I don’t know if this is normal or not– I experienced a kind of emptiness that I don’t have the right words for. It was as though the act of intercourse had opened up a chasm inside me, or maybe revealed one that had always been there. Somehow, being with somebody else had made me feel completely, profoundly alone.

At once, I felt older and wiser than Oikawa. The girls used to be all over him in high school. He had dated someone new every week. It never worked out, for one reason or another, but we’d all assumed it was because he was too busy with volleyball. 

But now, a year into university? It was curious, that was all. 

When I awoke the next morning, he was still sleeping with my arm draped over him. For some reason, he was holding onto my forearm with both hands, and sucking unconsciously on the back of my wrist. How weird.

 _Everything’s going to be all right,_ I thought at him, _I’m here_.

Of exactly what I was reassuring him– from whom I thought I was protecting him– I had no idea. If I could tell him these things, then I could believe them too. 

It was silly, but I let myself imagine for just a moment– was it too much to ask in one lifetime?– not money, not glory, not fame, but just to open my eyes to his silky, pillow-mussed brown hair across my face every day. To feel the rise and fall of his chest under my arm. That would be enough. 

And right then, in my head, I heard the word Shikichi had spat in my face, the thing I never wanted anyone to call Oikawa again. 

My breath caught in my chest as the wild feelings surged back in. I held him tighter, pressing against the shape he made under the duvet as he slept soundly on. 

I would ruin him. 

Things would be so much easier if I could just fall for Mina again like I was meant to. And yet, if I could choose...

_I’d choose you, Oikawa. I’d choose to love you every single time._

ø

He dragged me to the department store after his morning classes.

“There’s a sale on men’s fragrances,” he insisted, “it’ll be fun, Iwa-chan.”

“All right, already. Just stop pouting at me like that. You look like a sick rat.”

“You’re so mean, Iwa-chan. Why not a sick mouse? That’s cuter.”

“Fine. A sick mouse, then. Come on, let’s get it over with.”

I actually didn’t mind the department store as much as I used to. Sure, as a kid, it’s boring, sitting there while your mother tries on blouses, boxed in by stacks of watches, wallets, shoes, and jackets, longing for just thirty minutes of playing on the GameBoy that you’re not allowed to bring out in public. 

But today I found a certain admiration for the way all this stuff was laid out in a way that made it seem all-important. I was grudgingly impressed by the gleaming array of sunglasses in the mirrored carousel; the shimmering panels depicting doelike women sprawled across hundred-thousand yen handbags. Sometimes to appreciate something, you have to meet someone who adores it so much they won’t shut up about it.

And to my knowledge, no one has ever fallen more completely under the spell of retail than Tohru Oikawa.

I followed him, NPC-like, as he flitted from display to polished display, starry-eyed over every faux-gold clasp and rabbit-fur trim. 

He had always had expensive tastes. Even those who knew us well wouldn’t have guessed that he was poorer than me. Of the two of us, he was the one with two working-class parents; the one who actually needed the volleyball scholarship he was on. Maybe it’s because of that he always worshipped these gaudy symbols of wealth. 

When we were little, he could never save any of his pocket money at all. No sooner was it in his cupped hands than it was clattering merrily into so many _gachapon_ machines and street vendor tills. My head hurt thinking about what he got up to now with his own credit card. 

I, on the other hand, have never been either good or bad with money. Sometimes I’d spend an arbitrary sum on a whim, thinking nothing of it, until my parents later informed me it was exceedingly silly. At other times, I’d forget I had money at all, and bills would simply accumulate in my wallet until I couldn’t fold it up properly. 

“Look, Iwa-chan,” he gasped, pulling me by the wrist over to a tasteful rack of Hermès scarves, “These are new designs– they came out just last week–”

Hermès. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. I found myself strangely moved by the way he pronounced the names of these brands with such earnest reverence. 

The only time I remember consciously planning a purchase was for Oikawa’s eleventh birthday. I’d saved up for three and a half months to buy him a key fob with the Coach logo on it.

I remember my cautious pride as Oikawa undid the wrapping paper with care, and instantly flew into a paroxysm of delight to see the iconic horse-and-carriage embossed on the lid of the little box. There was an eggshell card inside that read “Certificate of Authenticity.” Entranced, he’d flipped it over and over again, running his fingers over the textured surface.

The card. Not even the actual key fob.

“Oh, Iwa-chan, I love it. I love it.”

He’d been so happy he’d forgotten to actually say, “thank you,” and I reminded him with a bluffed surliness that belied my supreme sense of triumph. Even then, it had made me suddenly wish I actually had enough money to afford these meaningless baubles, just so I could always buy Oikawa every stupid thing he wanted. 

After it seemed like we had meandered through the entire department store with the efficiency of a housefly looking for an open window, we at last made it to the fragrances section. There, we amused ourselves spritzing the die-cut slips supplied for sampling cologne, each collecting a little stack of them like trading cards. We took turns sounding out the English letters, with no idea what the words meant. _La Nuit de l’Homme._ A spell for hair growth in balding men, perhaps.

We both noticed the same oddly-shaped bottle at the same time: dark blue, tapering and oblong, with a slender silver crown, a fragrance that had been set apart from the others. We scrutinized it, his face on one side of the display case, and mine on the other. The spare white label read–

“No-stal-ghee...a?” I sounded out clumsily.

We Googled it. _Nostalgia_. 

“Look, Iwa-chan, it’s Greek,” said Oikawa, "' _Nostos,’_ a hero’s return home after a long journey. And _‘algos,’_ which means pain. So… the pain…”

“...of returning home.”

He sprayed it onto the back of his wrist and rubbed it in, and then sniffed it. 

“ _Blegh_ , it’s so bitter! You should wear this, Iwa-chan, it suits you better.”

He tried to spray me with it too, but I was too fast for him. I grabbed it and wrested it from his grip before his slippery index finger could depress the pump again. Then, for good measure, I delivered two more spritzes down the back of his shirt.

“Oh, Iwa-chan,” he wailed, squirming, “Now I can’t smell anything else.”

“That’s how _Nostalgia_ works,” I said wisely, setting the bottle back into its case.

ø

When Oikawa went to volleyball practice, I let myself into the fitness center using Oikawa’s ID badge. The card reader was automatic and the attendant was nose deep in this month’s _Shonen Jump_ , so it was fine. 

Totsuka’s fitness center was just as nice as you’d expect it to be. The entire far wall near the free weights was covered in a single gleaming, spotless mirror, so you could pay attention to your form during lifts. There were even student workers darting around, making sure to wipe things down and put them away properly.

I warmed up with a 5k on the treadmill at an eight minute pace. It was one of those treadmills with an animated display featuring a half-kilometer track around an athletic field, and I watched the digital version of myself drifting around and around the ellipse, expression unchanging, as the blinking numbers for time, distance, and calories increased steadily. It was oddly soothing. 

I stretched carefully and moved onto the rest of my workout. I don’t usually bother with the machines. They’re kind of gimmicky and only work one muscle group, which gets pretty boring after a while. Instead, I prefer to alternate a few basic lifts with crossfit-type training, like rowing or pull-ups. That way you give your muscles a chance to recover between days.

After I’d quit the volleyball team, I had been so pissed off that I'd stopped exercising completely, almost as if to prove a point. The next day, for the first time, my muscles weren’t sore in the morning. I ate whatever I wanted. I stayed up late. 

It lasted about a week, and then my body staged a coup. A layer of fat formed over my abdominal muscles, like the rind on braised pork. My face broke out in the pimples I hadn’t had since I was fifteen. Worst of all, my anxiety worsened. I couldn’t focus on my classes. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat for no reason at all. 

Right then, at two in the morning, I had gotten out of bed and done forty pushups on my bedroom floor. Instantly, I’d felt better. I renewed my fitness center membership as soon as it opened that morning. I’ll never stop working out again. Even a little bit each day helps. 

I started with squats. These came a bit more naturally to me than other lifts, since my legs have always been pretty strong. The trick is to keep your back straight and stick your butt out instead of jutting your knees forward, which can strain your ligaments. I did a set of fifteen and then timed myself for a minute of rest.

There was something else exercise helped with, too: a feeling I’d experienced more and more lately. It was the feeling like I was stuck in the passenger seat. Like I could look out the window and recline the seat and fiddle with the radio controls, but in the end, it wasn’t up to me where I was going. When I felt like that– weak, passive– I thought, at least I can make my body stronger. At least it will go where I tell it to.

There were people who had control over all aspects of their lives, and I always wished I could do that. Some people had the strength to take the world by the lapels and simply demand what they wanted. Like Ghengis Khan, or Alexander the Great, I guess. 

The kids from Karasuno High used to call Oikawa “the Great,” too. He’d always shrug that off. He had been obsessed with the fact he wasn’t a genius like Kageyama. 

“I’m just ordinary, Iwa-chan. Everyone knows it. How am I supposed to compete with a brat like that?”

What made someone superhuman? What gave him that right? Most people, even Oikawa, were only human.

But I’d really like to belt anyone who could ever call Oikawa ordinary.

After I finished the squats, I moved on to deadlifts. These take practice to get right. Again, it’s all about form.

I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall. And then my thoughts drifted back to the incident from the end of high school.

We were alone in the changing room after morning practice. The scrimmage had gone a bit long, and the two of us had stayed behind to clean up, so we only had a few minutes to change before class. 

That’s when I decided to make my move.

I crept behind him holding a wet towel.

“Hey, Oikawa.”

“Yeah?”

_Thwack._

I darted backward, wheezing with laughter, as he pounced at me with murder in his eyes. A red welt blossomed on his flank.

“That really hurt, you bastard.”

I was about to apologize when he snaked his hand around and snatched the towel out of my hands. I turned to run for my life but there was nowhere to go.

“Hold still–”

He had me cornered. I curled up instinctively to defend my stomach, but I ended up getting smacked on my butt through my boxers. The spot smarted like fire. He was right. It hurt a lot more than I thought it would. There’s no way I’d let him get away with that shot without retaliating. 

As I advanced on him, he hid the towel behind his back.

“Iwa-chan, truce, okay?”

“Give it to me.”

“Fair’s fair.”

“You hit my ass, how’s that fair? Give it.”

He was all the way up against the door now. One more step and his back pressed up to a fading milk advertisement that had probably been there since the eighties. 

He put his hands on my hips. 

I searched his face, trying to work it out. He smiled at me in an evil kind of way as, with a terrifyingly gentle touch, he guided me closer. I stumbled into him, and then I was breathing in his warm, heady breath.

My own arms hung tepidly at my side as he tucked fingers under the waistband of my boxers. I must have winced, because his eyes flickered over mine.

“No?”

His hands slid up my belly instead. Deliberately, indulgently, like my torso was a designer briefcase he couldn't afford. The air in the room seemed to grow thinner; the only sounds, the whisper of touch on my skin, and my confused, staccato breaths. My temples began to pound. I thought about stopping him. Then I thought I'd rather die than stop him. The wet towel lay on the chair by the door, forgotten. 

He brushed his thumbs over my nipples. 

I stopped breathing altogether; closed my eyes, bit hard the inside of my lip and tasted blood. 

“It's okay, Iwa-chan,” I felt the gentle pulse of each word on my face, “It's only me. Let it out.”

But I couldn’t. If I did, I’d make a sound. Hesitantly, hardly believing what I was doing, I put my hands on his face. Falteringly pushed my fingers through his hair as I slowly suffocated.

_Clang_.

“Hey, are you okay, man?”

“Yeah… fine.”

The Totsuka fitness center materialized around me once more. I’d lost my balance and dropped the bar. Luckily it had missed my foot, and I hadn’t strained anything falling backward. The man who’d come to my rescue had an unbelievably muscular body that looked odd against the kindness in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, though.”

He cast one more concerned glance over his shoulder at me and then went back to the bench where his spotter was waiting. 

A little embarrassed, I finished my workout, stretched, and left the gym.

Nothing more had really happened in the changing room that day. As I felt his nose brush up against mine, the school bell rang, the gymnasium doors burst open, and the first period gym students came clamoring in. We sprang apart from one another as though burned and finished dressing in a flurry, faster than a pair of military cadets. 

The rest of the day was agony. A dirty wanting beneath my skin. An infuriating frustration. I didn’t say a word to Oikawa. When I got home, I ran straight for the shower.

We’d never talked about it. I tucked it away in my memory, in some kind of climate-controlled, airless glass case like they have in the back of a museum.

Did you know that whenever you recall a memory, it goes back in differently than the way it came out? It’s true. You can’t remember the same thing twice, a least, not in the very same way.

So I was careful with that memory. I never once thought about Oikawa’s thumbs in the waist of my underwear when I masturbated. I never thought about the calluses on his fingertips running up my ribcage, or the way he told me to _let it out_ : the groan behind my teeth, the thing he wanted but that I would not give. I kept it in the dark the way they do with priceless paintings, worried the light would make the colors fade.

ø

Tuesday afternoon came around. Oikawa dropped me off at the train station after his volleyball practice. 

“Wish you could stay longer.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Come back soon.”

“I will. Hey, Oikawa.”

He looked at me, inquiring, anticipating.

“Yeah?”

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t quite make the words fall out. 

Oikawa only smiled. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, even though everyone could see. I stared at him stupidly, my heart somersaulting. He then smiled and pushed me toward the swing-gate turnstiles, but said nothing more.

I made my way onto the train, my hand on the spot on my face where his lips had been. I hoped I wasn’t visibly blushing. Furtively, I checked my messages as a way to pass the time. Email bulletins. Group texts. News articles.

And then– how had I missed it? A message from Mina.

My fingers trembling, I opened it, bracing myself for the wounded goodbye.

 _I never want to see you again_ , it would probably say. _I wish you hadn’t strung me along for seven months_. _I never loved you._

Instead, the message contained just a single line of text.

_Are you okay, Hajime?_


	4. Mina

It was at the art museum that I first met Mina for the first time. Students got in free on Wednesday afternoons. She had been standing alone in front of a small European oil painting, so quiet and still that I’d almost bumped into her. 

I looked over her shoulder and read the description on the plaque:

_Still Life_

_Fede Galizia_

_Milan, 1578 - 1630_

The painting depicted a porcelain bowl on a stone ledge, teeming with grapes and plums. A few pears were perched precariously on the left. 

“It’s the light,” she said.

I jumped, not realizing she’d caught me trying to figure out what was so mesmerizing about fruits on a table. And she turned to face me. 

She was pretty. Her features were just right, everything in its proper place. Her hair was paper-straight, a shade more brown than black. Most striking to me was the fact that her clothes, though they didn’t look expensive, all fit her perfectly, and seemed immaculately cared-for. 

Once she knew she had my attention, she pointed back toward the painting.

“The light,” she said again, “Look at the way it comes in on the left. You can tell it’s daylight, because of the white reflections. See how it’s just bright enough to make the fruits glow? I love that.”

“Oh… yeah…” 

As she spoke, I, too, noticed the rich, deep color of the plums, and the satiny patina in each delicate cleft.

“And that’s not all,” she went on, “look at how balanced everything is. Not quite filling the frame, but forming that triangular shape within it.”

Now I could see that, too.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, “But… it also makes me nervous, somehow.”

She nodded knowingly. 

“So you can sense it, too. There’s a reason for that. It’s the way it all looks so perfect in the moment– it makes you feel like the next second, everything’s going to end. The pear on the edge might roll off and burst on the floor. The grapes and the plums are going to go mushy in that sunlight, and the flies will eat them. It’s fragile. Fleeting. It’s almost like it’s saying–”

And then we both tried to finish her sentence at the same time.

She said, “–good things don’t really last.”

Just as I said, “–sometimes you only get one chance.”

She looked surprised for a moment, then grinned at me, as though to say, _I dare you_. 

She gave me her number and I asked her out for coffee. After our first date, I texted Oikawa in nervous excitement:

_met a girl. she’s a first-year law student_

_she seems kind, and she’s interesting and fun_

_Oikawa: wow! she sounds amazing. does dating you count as pro bono work? =^w^=_

_Me: that’s not what that means, dumbshit._

Mina and I grew close very quickly. She was what my friends called “girlfriend material.” Easygoing, quick to laugh, sure of herself in a way that made me almost envy her. Brilliant, too, but you’d never know it from hanging out with her. What I mean to say is, she didn’t have any of the usual unpleasant qualities associated with brilliance. She wasn’t moody, or arrogant, or antisocial or anything like that. We could talk about anything for hours. 

I loved hearing her talk. You can always tell when people’s opinions just mimic flashy headlines, or soundbites from television. Everything Mina said was thoughtful, and she never pretended to know more than she did; never lorded her knowledge above others. She even lent me her full attention when I explained the relative merits of contemporary _kaiju_ film remakes. 

Whenever Mina was around, I felt calmer. Sometimes I would look up from my homework to see her folding her laundry, meticulously smoothing out the folds and tucking the sleeves, turning every blouse and sweater into a perfect rectangle. I soon realized why her clothes looked so pristine: she treated each of her belongings like it was precious, irreplaceable. Nothing was ever thrown on the floor or hung on a doorknob; everything had a place.

She was a few months older than me, and better in bed than I was. I found her bare body so very lovely– a gentle horizon against the window, each breast a delicate peak in profile. Before I went down on her, I liked to press my face into her abdomen: such a soft, welcoming place compared to my own. She was loving and patient with me. She taught me how to pleasure her, and she was generous in her turn. 

But one time, after I’d just come in her mouth, I opened my eyes to see an odd expression on her face.

“What is it?”

Mina left the room to drink a glass of water. When she returned, she asked, “Hajime, when we have sex, is it… good? For you, I mean?”

I thought about it seriously. Was it good? Well, of course it was. It felt great. 

Was it amazing, life-changing, mind-blowing? To be honest, I didn’t have a clear idea what that was supposed to mean. I thought about the porn I sometimes watched before bed: the overacted pleasure, the waxed bodies writhing in ecstasy, the exaggerated moans reverberating through my headphones. 

Compared to that, it wasn’t all too surprising that the real thing wasn’t as dramatic.

The thing was, I didn’t mind very much about the sex. The two of us enjoyed each other’s company so much that it hadn’t seemed worth fussing over at the time. It didn’t matter.

But looking back now, it seemed it had mattered, after all.

When I arrived at the café, she was already sitting outside. She wore gray cashmere over a polka-dot blouse, pale blue jeans, and vintage sunglasses, which she removed, polished, and carefully placed in a velvet case when I sat down. Then she slipped the case into her bag and leaned forward on the table.

“How are you?” she asked, at the same time as I said, “I’m sorry.”

She half-smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

“I’m fine,” she said, “Really. But I’m worried about you.”

The waiter came around. Mina ordered us jasmine tea and agedashi tofu. 

“About me?” I said, “why?”

She shrugged, folding her menu. 

“It’s the way you looked the night you bailed on me. You seemed worried about something. Something you couldn’t talk about. I'm sorry I didn’t return your calls before.”

“It’s okay. I would have been angry with me, too.”

The tea arrived. I poured a cup for each of us. It was eleven o’clock. The tables around us started to fill up with groups of students. 

“Mina,” I said, “I meant what I said that night. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. I shouldn’t have let things go on as long as I did. It’s just that... you were wonderful to me.”

She took her teacup and set it down in front of her with both hands.

“I thought that might be the case,” she said, “Sometimes, you know, it seemed like you’d space out or something when we were together. And I wondered where you’d gone. I wanted to give you the time you needed to figure it out, whatever it was. But I think you went there again that night, and this time, you didn’t come back.”

I raised my cup to my lips but didn’t take a sip. She was right, of course. And, in spite of what I’d done to her, she was thinking about how I felt. That’s just the kind of person Mina was: generous toward others, selfish and exacting toward herself. 

“Do you really want to know?” I asked.

“As much as you want to tell me,” said Mina.

So I told her the whole truth, from the beginning. I told her about sharing a bed when we were little, about getting felt up in a silent changing room; that thought left unfinished just a year ago. About what had happened that day with Shikichi. I told her about the train ride and Sunday practice and the chaste kiss he’d given me at the station just before I left. 

By the time I was done, the untouched order of agedashi tofu had gotten cold, and the bonito flakes on top had collapsed into a soggy mat. While Mina took a moment to absorb everything I said, I took a bite. It was still delicious.

I offered her some, but she declined. 

“What is it that’s bothering you most?” she asked.

I considered the question. I was bothered by a lot of things. The fact I couldn’t play volleyball anymore. The fact that I no longer had my teammates. And then the usual things. Exams, job-hunting, money. But most of all–

“The fact that I’m losing him,” I said, “Little by little. And wanting to hold on, when maybe it’s time to let him go.”

Mina’s fingers fluttered on the table, as though she wanted to reach for me, but then changed her mind.

She hesitated, then said: “But you need him, don’t you, Hajime?” 

I thought again about the train that had taken him to University. Of the metal doors closing on our childhood. Oikawa had his own life now, and considering what had once happened between us, having me around might not be good for him, after all. 

“We’re not in high school anymore, Mina,” I said, “Everything matters more now. Oikawa has a shot, I mean, a real shot, at going pro. I’m not going to get in the way of that. Like, I’m just an old friend, you know? That time of our lives when we were close– it’s kind of over now.” 

She stroked the rim of her teacup for a while, staring at the dredges at the bottom as she turned my words over in her head.

“I’m sorry to drag you into this,” I added hastily, “This is probably the last thing you want to talk to me about.”

But Mina glanced sharply into my eyes, and right away, I knew I had misunderstood her. Could it be that she wasn’t furious over the way I had called things off? 

“May I tell you something about myself?” she asked, taking me by surprise. 

I nodded. We ordered more tea. 

Mina said, “I achieved a perfect score on my high school entrance exam.”

I gaped at her.

“You never told me that,” I said. 

But Mina didn’t appear pleased with herself. If anything, she looked ashamed.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” she said, “Because of what happened afterward. My best friend, Naomi, and I, had our hearts set on Midori High. But she had a bad test day, and we both cried when her scores came back. Midori was out of the question for her. We’d always planned on going to the same high school. And I couldn’t fathom losing touch with my best friend.

My parents. My teachers. Everyone tried to talk me out of it. Midori was the fastest way to my dreams, they said. Even Naomi wanted me to go. She said, ‘I’ll write you letters, Mina. I’ll come over on the weekends. You’re my best friend, no matter what.’ But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear to go to Midori alone, when we’d dreamed of going together for so long. Naomi enrolled at Harataima Station High, a public school near where we lived. And I did the same.”

My academic prowess in middle school had been leagues behind Mina’s. Still, it almost hurt to hear the last piece. I hadn’t grown up anywhere near Kanagawa, and even I knew the reputation of the school that Mina had passed over.

“You gave up _Midori_ ,” I said, “For… some public school close to home?”

Mina nodded without much emotion. I sensed she’d had to explain her decision many times in the past.

“I didn’t like it there,” she went on quietly, “It was loud, and I got teased for being a goody two-shoes. Naomi became popular since she was good at sports. And the other girls told her not to hang around me. She didn't listen, at first. She defended me when she saw me being bullied.

But something else ruined our friendship, Hajime. She resented me. She knew I’d given up Midori to stay with her and she stuck around out of guilt. But the unhappier I was– the more obvious it was that I didn’t fit in– the more she blamed herself. One day she just stopped talking to me. Looked away when I passed by, like she didn’t see me. And when I tried to give her a birthday gift, she acted like I was a total stranger, in front of all of her friends. 

I confronted her later that night. I told her I wasn’t upset about choosing Harataima, but I wanted to know how she could do that to me: how she could disown me like that in front of everyone. She started to cry. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Mina. I loved you so much once. I would have done anything for you. But I’m not the same anymore, and you still are.’ Then– and when she said this, I started to cry, too– she said, ‘Please, Mina. If you really care about me, then set me free.”

The color had left Mina’s eyes. She sighed, her thoughts caught eight years in the past.

“All of that worry. All of that trouble. In the end, I lost her anyway. I should have gone to Midori. I know that now. But in a way, I’m glad for the pain. I’m happy I once cared about someone so much. I lost my sense of smell shortly after Naomi’s birthday. It was strange. My father held a dish of _natto_ in front of my face, and it simply had no scent. My poor parents took me to three different specialists. I had an MRI of my brain, and a lot of other tests done. No one could find anything wrong with me. And then finally, one of the doctors– an old neurologist– sat down with us and asked me if something bad had happened to me.

After a few months, I could smell again. My mother cried in relief. She made me promise never to love anyone that much again. And I promised. I don’t even know where she is now, or what she’s doing. I don’t miss her anymore, though I did for a long time– years and years. It was like I was just stuck there, a rock in a riverbed, while Naomi, and everyone else, moved forward. Ever since then, I’ve avoided attachments that cut as deep as that. Even with you, Hajime.”

I nodded, starting to understand.

“With you, nothing was ever difficult,” I said, “With you, nothing ever hurt.”

The check came. Mina reached for her bag, but I brushed her hand away and set my credit card on the tray. 

“When I first met you,” said Mina, “I felt like there was something familiar about you. I couldn’t tell what it was, at first. But I think I do now. It’s like there’s a sadness in your soul, the same color as the one in mine. Just be careful, Hajime. Nothing stays the same. Not even love.”

And then I wanted to take Mina in my arms again.

Mina, who so protected and cared for everything of hers, from the high heels she kept under dust covers, to her own heart, broken so long ago. Even the thoughtless young man who had left her all alone in an udon restaurant. 

Who even now, was telling me with her eyes: _I will always be here for you_.

What I said was, “I really missed you, Mina.”

I walked her back to the law library. Before she went inside, she hesitated and turned around.

“Hajime,” she said, “In case it’s not clear, I want you to know that I’m on your side. For whatever happens next.”

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

Then she reached into a pocket of her bookbag and pulled out a wooden keychain attached to a Toyota key. 

“The next time Oikawa-san visits you,” she said, “You can take him to Mount Mitsumane. It’s better to go by car for camping. Just don’t wreck the car, okay? It’s my dad’s.”

To this day, Mina is still one of my best friends. 

I texted Oikawa later that afternoon. Wrote and rewrote the message on my phone over the course of a half hour. At one point, the text message filled up my entire phone screen with my lame explanations and pretended intentions. 

I deleted the entire thing and started over:

 _Me: hey. visit me next time you have a free weekend_. _i’ll take you camping._


	5. Passenger Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa and Iwa-chan go camping.

On a Friday night two weeks before our last Spring Tournament of high school, I texted Oikawa to see if he wanted to come over and watch the V-League final. He didn’t answer.

My mother noticed me walking to the front door with my coat on.

“Dinner’s going to be ready soon,” she called after me, but I promised I wouldn’t be long.

I was a little out of breath by the time I jogged up to the gym fifteen minutes later, unsurprised to find all the lights on inside, glowing coldly through the early March evening. From inside, I could hear the lonely, rhythmic slap of volleyballs hitting the floor in slow succession. 

The sounds stopped abruptly, guiltily, as I pushed open the unlocked door. I took in the sight of him, his chest heaving under a smudged T-shirt, his skin bleached and dull under the flood of the fluorescent lights. In his eyes I caught a glimpse of a manic glint that I remembered too well: a blinding greed that had threatened so many times to swallow him.

When he saw me, he pulled his features into a smile that lengthened the shadows under his eyes. It seemed forced and hollow. 

“It’s only a little extra training,” he started to explain, “Just a little extra work on my serve, I swear–” 

I held my hands out to stop him.

“It’s okay. I didn’t come to yell at you. For once.”

I closed the door behind me and walked up to him. Took the volleyball out of his hands, which he let me do without protest. His breathing slowed. He wiped his face on his shirt, leaving a streak of grime across his cheek. 

“Let’s go stretch,” I said, “Come on.”

We went over and he lay down by the bleachers, face up, on the hard wooden floor. I knelt beside him and gently lifted his right leg onto my shoulder. 

“How does it feel?” I asked, glancing down at his knee. Months ago he had suffered an overuse injury that didn’t seem to want to heal. Nowadays, I could hear the aspirins clattering around in his backpack whenever he set it down.

“Fine. Are you my mother, Iwa-chan?”

I didn’t answer. 

He sighed and closed his eyes. Tight muscles softened against my hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m not supposed to do this anymore.”

Carefully, I steepened the angle of his hip and leaned into him. 

“Push down.”

As he did so, he drew in a sharp intake of breath, then let it out, trembling. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No. It feels good.”

I finished with his right leg. Set it down. Picked up the left. 

“I’m going to take better care of myself,” Oikawa vowed, even though I hadn’t said anything, “I’m trying. Really. It’s just that if we don’t go to Nationals this year–”

“We’re going to Nationals this year.”

Oikawa opened his eyes and looked at me, surprised. Then he smiled tiredly. 

“Oh? You’re sure, Iwa-chan?”

“I’m sure. You’re not alone, remember? We all want this, just as much as you do. That’s the thing I came here to say.”

I finished stretching out Oikawa’s hamstrings, then released him and stood. But there he stayed, lying on his back, gazing upward and past me. As I watched, he reached out before him, spreading his fingers toward the stars on the other side of the dusty skylight.

Then, swiftly, he closed his hand around the air in front of him, trapping the watery light in his fist.

“Some things I want so badly, I really think I’d do anything,” he admitted, “The universe is forever, Iwa-chan. Our short lives are lived an infinite number of times, over and over again. Every battle won and lost, written into eternity across every possible lifetime.”

I looked up at the ceiling, too.

“Does that mean there are a billion trillion Oikawas out there, just as stubborn and reckless as you are?”

He chuckled, and lay his hands down on his stomach.

“Maybe. But there’s also a billion trillion Iwa-chans, worrying after every single one.”

I reached down to help him up. 

“Come on, Oikawa,” I said, “Finish stretching. And then let’s go home.”

ø

It hadn’t been easy to find a free weekend to drive up to Mount Mitsumane. He got in late, after an evening game, and so we slept in and departed later than we should have. I hadn’t counted on the early afternoon traffic, either. I drove, and put Oikawa in charge of figuring out the directions. Mina’s car, a tiny blue hatchback, fit a surprising amount of stuff in the back. She’d left us tents in the trunk, and we didn’t bring much else.

Even with the passenger seat all the way back, Oikawa couldn’t really stretch his legs out. His knees pushed up against the glove compartment the entire ride over. I was starting to get antsy. It was four o’clock, and it would be dark in a few hours. Meanwhile, Oikawa amused himself connecting his phone to the Bluetooth system, loading a playlist with synthy dance hits, completely unconcerned.

“How do you turn up the bass?” he puzzled, tapping each of the buttons in quick succession. I eased off the gas pedal.

“Oikawa,” I said, looking around.

“Iwa-chan,” he replied glibly.

“ _Oikawa_ ,” I said again, with urgency.

He finally looked up.

“What?”

I took a deep breath and tried to stave off the sinking feeling in my chest. 

“Where are we?”

We were the only car on a narrow two-way road. There were no signs in sight. The sun had already begun to sink behind the distant treetops.

“Just follow the GPS, Iwa-chan. See, here it says– oh, wait. Um.”

“ _'_ _Um,’_ what?” 

“I guess we lost signal a while ago.”

“What? We lost– _didn’t I tell you to download the route?_ ”

He pouted contritely.

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan. I forgot.”

I sighed and scanned the road ahead for a place to turn around.

“I guess it would have been weirder if you hadn’t,” I decided, and pulled the car onto the sloping dirt shoulder of the road.

In the end, we had to double back the way we came until we found a middle-of-nowhere general store that still sold paper copies of local maps. At a tiny, decrepit gas station, we spread it across the dash and turned on the interior light to read it. The map was from 1989. 

“Look,” I said, pointing, “That’s the road we were just on. So we’re here. H3.”

I followed the thick, squiggly line up toward the mountains. 

“And the campsite must be…”

We pored over the creased, dusty sheet in the dimming light.

“Here!” Oikawa declared in triumph, “At least, that’s where it was in 1989.”

We high-fived to congratulate ourselves on our brilliance. Then we filled the tank and pulled the car back onto the road.

When we finally made it to the campsite, night had fallen. Oikawa held up his phone as a flashlight as I put the tent together, squinting at the instructions on the box. It was a nice tent, which was unsurprising, since it belonged to Mina. She had put all of the loose components into a clear plastic grid box, and labeled each of the compartments. I was grateful to her all over again. 

“I guess we’d better go to sleep,” sighed Oikawa, “Since we need to head back in the morning. I’m sorry I ruined the trip, Iwa-chan.”

He got out of the car, stretched, and started to unload our bags. The moon was full, and the sky was so clear that you could see the trails of the Milky Way across the blue dark. And then I remembered something I had learned in Physiology at the beginning of the term. That our eyes are made to adjust to darkness, just like other animals. All you need to do is turn off all of the brighter lights and wait. 

“Maybe it’s not too late for a hike, Oikawa,” I said, “As long as we follow the path, and don’t go too far.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I touched his shoulder and pointed up to the heavens, “Look.”

Oikawa looked at the sky. His eyes widened, and filled with reflected stars.

“Oh.”

 _Oh._

The breathless syllable warmed the chilly evening like an ember. Just his single moment of wonder lifted the ceiling of my heart higher than the open sky. 

“Come on,” I said, nudging his arm, “This way.”

The forest was alive with music. Frogs and bugs sang in an undulating choir against the rustling of wind through the brush. Lacy silhouettes of maple leaves danced against the glow of the moon. We walked slowly, our faces upturned. His knuckles brushed against mine.

I shivered. 

The path curved. My breath crystallized in front of me. I wondered if he could hear my heart beating in the stillness. 

By the time we came around the next bend, his hand was in mine.

We walked on in silence. The moon and stars had never looked so bright. I felt suddenly like a feather in the wind, spinning around in the improbability of it: that, alone together, far away from anybody we knew, we had chosen to claim one another this way. 

Do we really go to paradise after we die? Or is paradise a thing seen in little glimpses throughout our short lives? Perhaps, it was what Oikawa believed: that our lives, as they are, repeat themselves in an endless rhyme; that in the making and unmaking of worlds, in the many many times we are born, and live, and die, he would find me, here, every single time. 

I wondered if I should say something. I felt like I would ruin everything if I tried to put it in words. But Oikawa spoke before I could.

“This is right,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Don’t you think so? Tohru and Iwa-chan walking through the forest, holding hands. This is how it was always meant to be.”

We paused on the path to look up at the stars. He leaned his head against my shoulder, and I leaned back.

“This light is billions of years old, you know,” I said for some reason, “The light from the stars. The star itself might not even be there anymore. It might have exploded a long time ago.”

Oikawa blinked serenely as he looked up into the sky with me.

“Don’t worry about that, Iwa-chan,” he said, “Because the light will always be here.”

It took me a while to work out what he meant, but in the end, I decided he was right.

The stars might be gone, but their light was eternal for mortals like us. Generations had passed, empires risen and declined, and continents had sunk into the sea under these silent, peaceful rays. Two young men like us might have stood in the gardens of Macedonia thousands of years ago, bathed in their already ancient glow. 

And now the light trickled across time, from the heavens through the clouds and through the branches, and fell all around us. It pooled on the bridge of Oikawa’s nose and glinted in his eyes. It illuminated our hands, joined together, and revealed the path ahead. The stars are real, even if they’re gone, because we are: little humans pausing to listen as they sing out endlessly from the past. 

Later that night, we put our arms around each other in the small, sturdy tent. As I fell asleep, I could feel Oikawa’s hands stroking my hair, his lips on my temple. The night brought a kind of peace I’d never felt before. A calm sense of happiness. 

I could have him. I could really have him. All I had to do was ask.

ø

On the drive back, Oikawa dozed off, rendering him useless as a navigator again.

“Ridiculous,” I muttered, and pulled the visor down on the passenger side to block the afternoon sun from his face.

Once we were back in the city, my phone chimed about a hundred times as reliable cell service came flooding back. At the gas station, I scrolled through the notifications as I waited for the tank to fill. Most of it was unimportant stuff, as usual. Bulk-deleting my notifications on app after app, I realized I could probably get away with checking my phone about ten percent as much as I did.

Finally, there was just one little red circle left. I had two missed calls.

Probably spam, I thought, tapping on the green icon.

It wasn’t spam. Both calls had been from Kai Okada, the captain of the Hachiouji men’s volleyball team. The second time, he’d left me a two minute voicemail.

I remember the first time I’d really spoken to Kai. I remember, because it wasn’t at practice or even at school. Instead, it was a Sunday, a few weeks after tryouts during my freshman year. Around four o’clock, I realized I’d finally run out of clean socks to wear the next day. I’d lived in the dorms as a freshman. When I pushed open the laundry room door with my shoulder, he was standing there in an undershirt, sweatpants, and plastic flip-flops over thick white crew socks, moving an armful of boxers to a dryer.

“I’m finished with this one,” he said helpfully, nodding toward the washing machine he’d just vacated. I just stared at him. 

Kai Okada was a legend. Last year, as a university freshman, he’d made the national roster. I’d watched him on television before meeting him in person, and until now, I’d only ever seen him in his training gear or uniform. In fact, I wondered if he even recognized me as one of the new starters.

He noticed the awkward silence and must have guessed what was going through my head, because he chuckled and looked down at his outfit a little self-consciously.

“How are you, Iwaizumi-kun? You looked good out there yesterday.”

“Oh– thanks.”

So he did know who I was. Somehow I felt even more embarrassed. 

He shut the dryer door, swiped his student card and started the cycle. Then he turned toward me.

“You’re from Sendai, right? You were vice-captain of your school team, I remember. And you’re studying sports science?”

I nodded to confirm each statement was correct. 

“I can't believe you remember all that about me,” I said. 

He smiled and waved a hand. 

“We upperclassmen talk,” he said, “And we read everyone’s face-sheet during tryouts. I think it’s important to try and get to know your teammates. It’s a shame we haven’t found a time to get together yet this year.”

I still hadn’t moved to put my clothes in the washing machine. I wasn’t ready for Kai Okada to see what my underwear looked like. We chatted for a bit longer, and then he left, hauling his clean laundry back up the stairs, his flip-flops clacking on each concrete step.

We did end up spending more time together as the year went on. He turned out to be an unassuming, polite sort of person who would never get caught unprepared for a presentation, or too drunk on a weekend. 

On the volleyball court, he was the kind of person attuned to every little thing, while others were focused only on the plays that directly involved them. He was the first to notice if someone was tired or tilted, and always seemed to be where you needed him most. I’d come to trust him, just like I’d once trusted Oikawa. 

The gasoline nozzle thunked, indicating the tank was full. There was no one waiting for the pump, so I left it there for a minute and listened to Kai’s voicemail. 

It was difficult to hear what he was saying. There was a lot of background noise that sounded like the echoes of bouncing volleyballs and the squeak of sneakers on a polished gym floor. 

“Hey, Iwaizumi-kun,” came Kai’s voice of two hours ago, “Um, it’s been a while. I just wanted to say hello and to see how you were doing. We just played Tokai, and, well, we could have used you. Not that, like, the other guys aren’t good. But I thought of you, that’s all. I know you probably weren’t ready to talk after, uh, what happened at tryouts. I swear, we didn’t know… we thought you quit the team and Coach wouldn’t talk about it either. Anyway, I was wondering, if, maybe, anything’s changed with you. Um, that’s all, I guess. 

Well, no, not really. What I really wanted to say was– and I’m sorry, this is probably out of the blue– I wanted to say that I’m on your side. Does that make sense? All of us were on your side, and we still are. So, like, if you want to, then don’t be a stranger, okay? Call me, or text me. Any time. We all wish you were here. Not just, like, on the team playing volleyball with us, but… we miss you, man. Okay. I gotta go. Bye.”

There were a few more seconds of the commotion in the gym, and then the message ended. 

I slipped my phone into my back pocket and pulled the gasoline nozzle out of Mina’s car, wondering whether I should reply to Kai’s message. It was the second time someone had said those words to me recently. _I’m on your side_. 

What should I say? I wondered how much Kai really knew about what had happened with Shikichi, and what had made him finally call after all this time. They’d all sent me messages back in August after I stopped playing, but I’d sent only short responses back, basically saying I was fine, and not to worry. I hadn’t liked people feeling sorry for me. 

But this was different. Kai had left that message for a reason, and I think I had a pretty good idea of what that was. I could guess how the match against Tokai had gone.

Back in the car, Oikawa was still fast asleep in the passenger’s seat. I slipped the key in the ignition. Before I started the car, I typed a short text message back to Kai:

_Me: thank you for the call. don’t worry about me. i have close friends to lean on. best of luck in the championships._

Almost instantly, a dancing row of dots appeared at the bottom of the messaging screen. Kai was writing back. I waited for his response, which appeared in a little green bubble after a minute:

_Kai: ok good. again, reach out any time. you’re always welcome back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Thanks for reading! As usual I love your comments/kudos. This past week I made a Twitter account... I have no idea what I'm doing on this platform or how to interact with people but if you want to talk to me there about Haikyuu or plants or life... @KMyuutsu. Have a nice weekend!


	6. Sendai

When the Fall League matches rolled around, Oikawa and I saw each other only a few times after Mount Mitsumane. Totsuka went nearly undefeated and won the University Champs in straight sets. The leaves turned brown. November came and went. 

_Me: congrats._

_Oikawa: thanks. wish you were here._

I did well on my final exams.   
  


_Oikawa:_ _nice!_

_Me: yeah. mina helped me with english. thank god._

Finally, winter break arrived, and we boarded the train back to Sendai together.

We hit up a couple of guys from the volleyball team on Christmas. Matsukawa and Hanamaki had stuck around after graduation. Kindaichi and Kunimi were third-years now, both university-bound. We met at the castle for old times’ sake. Wandered the cracked asphalt road along the lazy bend in the river. How scarcely things had changed in our little hometown, nearly another year gone. How quiet it now seemed.

On one of the nameless days before the New Year, Oikawa came over for dinner.

“You’ve gotten so tall, Tohru-kun,” my mother exclaimed, as he ducked in the door and handed her a wrapped box of cookies. My father greeted him with a slap on the shoulder. 

“Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, Uncle Iwaizumi.”

We’d prepared _nabemono_ for dinner. When we sat down, the pot had just started to boil on the electric burner.

“Got a girlfriend, Tohru-kun?” my father asked, generously dropping thin slices of beef into the soup. Oikawa smiled and stirred a bowl of sauce with the tips of his chopsticks. 

“Not right now.”

“What?” my mother feigned exaggerated shock, “But you’re so handsome, Tohru-kun!”

He nudged my foot under the table.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. 

“What about you, Hajime?” said my father, now ladling in the tofu, “How is Mina-san?”

I cleared my throat. My parents had assumed we were still together. That’s the only reason it hadn’t come up before now.

“We broke up a few months ago,” I said casually, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“That’s too bad,” said my mom, “She sounded like a lovely girl.”

“Cute, too,” said my father, winking. 

“It must have been because you spend all of your time playing volleyball,” my mother theorized, “Girls don’t like when you’re always busy, Hajime.”

I coughed.

“Actually, I’m not playing volleyball anymore, either.”

My parents exchanged quick glances. 

“Oh?” my mother finally prodded. 

The beef had already cooked. I took a slice and dropped it into the sauce.

“I wanted some time to figure out what to do after graduation,” I said, reciting what had now become a habitual lie. 

My father chewed thoughtfully.

“That’s a good idea,” he said, “Have you thought about what kind of career you want?”

I wished he hadn’t asked me that in front of Oikawa. 

“I’ve thought about it,” I said, “But I haven’t fully decided.”

He looked stern.

“This is an opportunity, then. For you to get serious about job-hunting.”

“Yeah.”

And then my mother said, “Tohru-kun! Have some more beef and shrimp.”

My mother and I washed the dishes after dinner. 

“Hajime,” she said, “Dad didn’t mean to upset you. He just wants to make sure you have the best shot at life. Just like always.”

“I know, Mom,” I said, “I’m not upset.”

She washed the chopsticks all at once, rolling them in her palms under the faucet, and then dropped them neatly in the drying rack. She looked a little older than I remembered. There seemed to be more creases around her mouth, even though I’d only been away for a few months. She still wore a crisp white blouse and a fitted skirt, and to this day I’ve never seen a run in her stockings. 

She said, “There’s another reason you quit volleyball, isn’t there?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

She nodded knowingly and picked up the pot, moving aside as I placed the remaining dishes in the sink.

“Does it have anything to do with Mina?”

I hesitated. The faucet ran.

“No,” I said, “Well, maybe.”

She paused in rinsing the pot and looked up questioningly.

Again, I recounted the Shikichi story. And, unable to help myself– I find it so hard to keep things from my mother– I told her, in exact words, what he’d said about Oikawa. 

When I finished she looked angrier than I think I’d ever felt. 

“That– piece of _shit_!” she shouted. 

She shut the faucet off and began to pace. Her cloth slippers slid restlessly over the tiles, loose around her black stockings.

“The nerve of these trust fund brats,” she practically yelled. I worried Oikawa and my dad might hear from the living room.

“He must’ve gone pretty high up,” I said, “It sounded like that when I talked to the coach.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said, “And I can’t believe he said that about you and Tohru-kun.”

And once more, I told her the truth. I couldn’t help myself. 

“Mom,” I said, “That part’s kind of true.”

She stopped pacing and turned slowly to face me. Her expression was not quite comprehending, but it wasn’t angry anymore, either.

“What do you mean?”

And I was terrified. I hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t prepared for it. Didn’t even know if it was supposed to happen this way.

“It’s Oikawa, Mom,” I blurted out, “It’s always been him. That’s why I ended things with Mina.”

There it was. I stood in the kitchen of my childhood home, a curious mix of relief and dread in my stomach as she turned my words over in her mind. It was for the best, the truth in the open, as raw and scared as it made me feel. Now, things could start to move. 

“Are you going steady with him now?”

“No. But I’d like to.”

“Dad doesn’t know?”

“No. I’m not ready to tell him yet.”

“Okay.”

And then she started to cry. 

I’m not good at this. I wanted to turn away. I didn’t know what to do when my mother cried. It still felt like something I wasn’t supposed to see.

“Mom,” I tried. 

She came over and put her arms around me. 

“My darling. My precious baby,” she said, like she used to, like I would never outgrow the caresses of her names for me. I hugged her back.

It was all gone. The fear, the dread. I buried my face in her neck. The crisp collar of her blouse brushed my cheek, rough and familiar. 

“It’s okay if you like guys.”

“Okay.”

“But,” she said, “It’s going to be so hard for you. And I’m sad because of that.”

Oh, Mom. Would I ever love anyone as much as I loved her? I wiped my eyes on her shoulder. I wished I didn’t have to hurt her this way.

“Listen, Hajime,” she said letting go of me to hold me at arm’s length, “Pain is inevitable in this life. As your parents, we’ve always tried to protect you. But we can only do so much. And we can’t tell you how to live, for the sake of sparing you the pain.”

I could only nod.

My parents weren’t much older than I was now when I had been born. How could anyone know, really, what was best? I thought of all the times I’d come home late and forgotten to call. All the times I’d disobeyed her.

You lost count of the times you broke your mother’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, “Never be sorry for the way other people have hurt you.”

“I know. But I’m sorry for making you worry.”

She smoothed my hair back from my forehead with both hands. 

“I’ll always worry, no matter what,” she said, “But you can always turn to Dad and me, understand? We’ll help you find a way to fight back.”

I put my hands over hers.

“It’s just volleyball,” I said, “Dad’s right. It’s time I grew up and got serious about real life.”

But, unexpectedly, my mother’s eyes flashed when I suggested that. My mother, who had always taught me to show up early, to take pride in my duty, and above all, or so I thought, to respect authority.

“Growing up doesn’t mean you stop doing what’s right,” she said, “You know, it’s not easy working in finance as a woman. A lot of people told me ‘no.’” A lot of people wanted to put me in my place. Of course I had to pick my battles carefully. But I picked them.”

I tried not to look too astonished. 

I’d never thought of her as anything other than my mother. She packed lunches for me every day in elementary school. She drove me to volleyball training camp on her way to work. But, my mother, someone who had to carve her own path before her? Someone who had dueled gray-haired men in suits for the last twenty years? 

It was hard to think of her that way. Hard to think of your parents as the heroes of stories that, for your sake, they’ve kept secret.

“Listen, Hajime,” she now said, “This world will try to break you, in so many ways. It will try to make you forget what you believe in– what you really want. I think people have got it all wrong. The life you want isn’t something that’s handed to you. It’s not even something that can be found. No, it’s something you must create for yourself. You wake up every morning, and you have to create it all over again.”

I swallowed. 

“Mom,” I said, “I don’t know if I can win this time.”

“That’s okay, too,” she said, “Sometimes, it’s not about winning. It’s about doing something you’re proud of. Even something as simple as refusing to back down without a fight. And whatever happens, your family is behind you. Understand?”

I hugged her tight again. 

“I understand,” I said. 

When we finally parted, she held my face tenderly.

“You’ve grown so much, Hajime,” she said, “But you’re still just a kid. Things are harder now, because you _feel_ so much more deeply when you’re young. But it means that things will be more beautiful to you, too. Go after what you want while you’re still whole. I believe in you.”

As I returned to the living room, my chest ached a bit. I had missed my mom, too. I had missed being comforted like that. But I also felt a little better about everything. Sometimes you needed to be reminded that someone loved you more than words could ever say. 

Oikawa and I went for a walk after the dishes were done.

“Stay warm out there,” my father called from the door. We waved, promising we would.

It was snowing. A dusting of the powder started to settle on the highest branches as we rounded the street corner toward Aoba Johsai as we had countless times in the past.

The grounds were quiet and deserted, the bike racks empty. They had locked the gates, and so, on a whim, we climbed the fence. Oikawa gave me a boost, and when I swung over I pulled him up. We landed on our feet simultaneously and brushed the snow off of our coats. 

And then we kept going, past the tennis courts and the gym. A few new picnic tables had appeared in the quad in the year we’d been gone. Posters for class president campaigns lined the walls. We still recognized a few of the names. At last we made our way out to the soccer pitch and started to wander across, leaving a trail through the frosted grass. And then we sat down on the cold aluminum bench by the sideline. Oikawa put his arm around me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. My mother and I talked.”

“Ah. Anything on your mind, Iwa-chan?”

I turned and looked into his eyes. 

From there, I traced his features downward. His nose and cheeks, pink in the nipping cold. His earlobes, just visible under his woolen hat. His lips, covered in a thin layer of chapstick. 

I brushed a strand of his hair aside, and as he searched my face, I thought: 

I could live the rest of my life without kissing my best friend. 

People did it all the time, didn’t they? Settled down with husbands and wives they liked well enough, had a few kids, worked thirty years, retired. We’d stand up, climb back over the fence, and walk back to my parents’ house. Oikawa would lose his virginity to some girl in his Statistics class. We would both be married by twenty five. He’d go on chasing his volleyball ambitions, and we’d have a beer from time to time when we were home for the holidays. 

Our old friendship would sit quietly on a shelf somewhere, a pair of sneakers that no longer fit, but that I couldn’t bear to throw away.

Maybe our kids would play volleyball together. 

I could feel his breath on my face, just like when he had touched me years ago. But this time, my eyes were open. 

_Stand up_ , I thought to myself, _Stop this. Spare him from the choice between you and his dreams. Spare him from the kind of love that requires, at every moment, an act of courage. Spare him–_

But I never had the chance. The next second, Oikawa had closed the distance between our faces. It was so sudden, his teeth bumped against mine. 

What else was there to do? I pressed my hand against his cheek and pulled him into me. I took his breath into my lungs. I swept my tongue against his lower lip, and I felt more than heard the sound he made. 

The words _I’m sorry_ , flashed briefly within me, and were replaced by, _I’ll never be sorry._

He undid the top buttons on my coat. Impatiently, I fumbled the rest of them open as he unzipped his own jacket and shrugged it off so that he wore only his black knit turtleneck. It wasn’t the slightest bit cold anymore. 

I lost track of how long we stayed on that bench pressed up against each other. I’d been without water for years, and it had just started to rain. I wanted to drink him up all at once, to drench my face and skin and clothes in him. Somewhere along the way, Oikawa had become a good kisser. This raised at once a flood of questions in me. I wanted to know everything. Everything.

Thinking back on it now makes me blush. The way I ran my hands over his shape over and over again, making sure it was real. The way the sounds escaped me, low and filled with need, in a voice that wasn’t my own. 

Then Oikawa suddenly grabbed my hand and brought it straight down between his legs. I could feel how hard he was through the navy fabric of his pants.

I pulled back like I’d been electrocuted. 

We both seemed to come to our senses then. We sat up on the bench, panting.

“Sorry,” said Oikawa breathlessly, “I thought–”

“It’s fine,” I said, “No, it was good.”

I could still feel my blood flowing at twice its normal speed. My hands trembled in my lap in a kind of disbelieving happiness, the way they did after we’d just won a set point in a game. I clasped them together. 

“Iwa-chan?”

“Yeah?”

I looked at him. Saw that his eyes were now shining with a guileless joy, a joy that unmade me.

“I’m really happy that happened,” he said. 

“Me too.”

“I felt sad sometimes, thinking we never would.”

“So did I.”

Every sensation was overpowering. Every sound seemed to ring out like a chord in a symphony. We sat this way for I don’t know how long, reeling, letting the winter wind wash the fire out of our skin. 

Then I panicked. 

“Shit. What time is it?”

It was nearly midnight. 

We hurried home. The lights were off by the time we got there, and we had to sneak in through the back, like kids afraid of getting caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my friends in the US - happy Thanksgiving! Thank you for all of your comments, hits and kudos! I am grateful to all of you for being a lovely audience.
> 
> Twitter - @KMyuutsu


	7. Greed

In the morning, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my phone on the pillow beside my ear. 

The events of the previous night played over and over again in my head, a single glorious track stuck on repeat. 

My boundless exhilaration seemed too big to fit inside me. I laid my hand over my pumping heart. My life seemed, for the moment, so senselessly beautiful, so full of promise that it seemed absurd I had ever been unhappy about anything. 

And then I considered what a sappy idiot I was. That all I had wanted was to be kissed like that. That I was really simple enough to think I could survive my twenties on love alone. Because nothing had really changed, other than the fact he had given me his mouth, his arms, his weight on the cold aluminum bench. Everything was the same except he’d put his breath into me, his sounds and his sighs. 

Yet I felt such a difference as the day began. For no good reason at all, I felt invincible.

The phone vibrated on the pillow. 

I snatched it up and read the message that glided across the lock screen.

_Oikawa: Go someplace private. Then call me._   
  


I stumbled out of bed, pulling my socks on as I ran down the hall, and shouted a vague explanation to my parents when I was halfway toward the door. 

The snow had set in the night, forming a smooth, sparkling layer on the pavement. The streets were empty as I jogged the five blocks down to the local park. I slowed at the corner, my breath unfurling before me in long plumes against the December sun. There were a few kids digging around in the snow near the slide. The swings drifted in the breeze, weighted down by the neat white drifts.

I sat down on the wooden bench near the playground. Once settled, I dialed his number.

He picked up after three rings.

“Where are you?”

“The park near your house.”

“Wait for me. I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay.”

I hung up and slipped my phone into my jacket. 

As I waited, I grew nervous. Seeing his face again would make everything real. And, gradually, it dawned on me that that might not be such a good thing. 

Maybe there was still time to bail. 

Frantically, I stood, burrowing my hands into my pockets, and turned back in the direction from which I’d come. I could say he must have gotten the wrong park, but that my parents were calling me home to help with lunch. _Sorry, Oikawa. Another time._

But before I could make my escape, I heard his voice behind me, and jumped.

“Iwa-chan, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” I lied, sitting back down, “Just stretching.”

He sat beside me, languidly outstretching his legs and interlacing his fingers behind his head. 

Had I ever noticed before how his movements had smoothed out over the years? How his roiling energy had transformed into an easy, elegant sureness? He seemed a different creature to me altogether in this light. I thought pathetically, _I love you._

“You’re stiff, Iwa-chan,” he remarked, admiring the winter sky, “You don’t regret kissing me, do you?”

I felt myself flush from my ears to my chest when he said it aloud. 

“Of course not,” I said, “No. I don’t regret anything.”

He smiled at this.

“Then, what’s wrong?”

What was wrong was that the sight of his face was at once lovely and awful to me. 

For some reason, I suddenly thought of Galizia’s painting of plums in a bowl: perfection in an instant, suddenly gone. Mina had known, long before I did, the nature of paradise. She had even tried to warn me: a lifetime made of mere dreams, played out on the stage of our past. A single glimpse of the divine, for which we pay and pay.

Some things were too precious to last. Some moments existed only to be remembered. And chasing down something perfect and whole made it somehow less so.

“I really like you, Oikawa,” I said finally.

The words hung in the brittle air like icicles. 

Oikawa’s smile faded a little. He leaned over and laid his hand on my arm.

“You, too,” he said, “So why do you sound so sad when you say that?”

The parents of the children by the slides had been strolling the perimeter of the park. They passed by our bench now, and one of them cast the briefest sidelong glance at us when he touched me. 

I waited for them to turn the corner.

“You’re always saying how mean I am, aren’t you?” I said, “So I wanted to tell you this once, since I don’t know if I ever have before. You are dear to me. You’re special.”

Pain flashed in his eyes.

“So, then–”

“But,” I swallowed and glanced away, “But, we can’t do this.”

And then his orphaned sob cut through the stillness, sharp and pure. 

_“Why?_ ”

It was unbearable to me that I couldn’t at least hold him now. That I had to let his tears fall unchecked down his face instead of stopping them with my lips. 

“You know why,” I said, “You know why, because we’ve both thought this through before.”

He stopped crying long enough to glare at me. Angry pink blotches bloomed like roses across his cheeks. 

“Don’t you dare do this to me,” he spat. 

His fury stirred me just enough to go on. 

“Oikawa,” I said, “You know what happens. Even here, even now. You know now hard it would be.”

“So the fuck what?”

“So, what about your dreams? What about volleyball? What about the chance you have, _that you really have_ , to make it all happen? Am I supposed to ask you to give that up, for me?”

He kept staring at me with those hurt, bewildered eyes, and I sighed.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” I said, “About why I stopped playing volleyball.”

I repeated the story that, at this point, I’d told only Mina and my mother in confidence. They had been happy to share that burden with me. But it was something I hadn’t wanted Oikawa to bear, not unless I had no other choice. 

When I finished, a sad understanding had replaced the confusion on his face. 

“Iwa-chan,” he said softly, “You’re afraid.”

Of course I was afraid. I had been afraid ever since I had learned that there was nothing that couldn’t be taken away; that power was a thing seized by force, and wielded precisely by those who possessed the greatest talent for depravity.

But Oikawa would never have to experience that fear. Not if I could protect him from it. 

That had been my purpose, I now understood, ever since we were small. It was the reason I’d been born a month before him: so there would never be a day I wouldn't be there to shield him from the the world's evil. 

“Listen, Oikawa,” I said as gently as I could, “I know it feels like I’m being cruel. But think about the future, okay? You’ve had girlfriends before, right? There’s someone out there who will love you without putting you in danger. Without holding you back. It’s hard to believe, but you’ll forget all about me one day. How will you know unless you try?”

“I’ve tried.”

“No, you haven’t.” 

“I’m telling you, I’ve _tried–_ ”

“Oikawa, for God's sake, you’re still a virgin.”

Oikawa’s mouth dropped open. And then, once again, I knew I'd gotten it all wrong.

I could see him performing mental calculus, working backward trying to deduce where I’d ever gotten such a stupid idea. 

Then, very slowly, as though pointing out something completely obvious, he said: _“I’m not a virgin.”_

My thoughts whirled like the icon over a buffering video.

“But you said–”

“I said I’d never been inside a girl.”

He read the look of shock on my face and suddenly burst out laughing, the tears still sticky on his face.

“Okay, I’ll admit,” he said, “I didn’t tell you _right away_. But after last night! After what we did! You thought I was still some innocent cherry-boy? I’m seriously insulted!”

“You’ve–” I glanced quickly over at the kids on the playground, and made sure their parents were nowhere near, “You’ve been sleeping with guys?”

It was amazing how fast my heartbreak had transformed into abject jealousy.

“Yeah,” said Oikawa, sounding just a little sheepish, “A few.”

He had been walking home on a Friday, over a year ago now. He'd been totally broke. He’d only swung by the gay district on a lark.

 _Just a little detour_ , he’d said to himself, _for the colors, the warmth, the lights._ He didn’t have the cash for much else. 

Somehow, he’d found himself wandering toward the blue light of the lounge at the end of the street, where the music came crashing out from deep within, throbbing through the ground, through his bones, through the set of steps he now climbed. He drifted inside, transfixed, like a moth by a flame. There was a huge aquarium filled with tropical fish just inside the door. The wall opposite was covered in a mural of dozens of undressed men, intertwined in a wrestling match that looked like an orgy. 

And They had been there, waiting for him.

They were dancing under the splatter of the revolving lights, shouting to be heard over the music. They were leaning over the rails of the mezzanine, dragging luxuriantly on their cigarettes. They were crowded in the corners, watching from the shadows as he walked through the sitting area, and slowly approached the bar. 

He still didn’t have a single yen on him. But somehow he didn’t feel out of place at all. 

And then, as if by magic, a drink had appeared before him.

He picked it up. Took two long, courageous sips. Then he looked around for the man who had bought it for him.

Sitting beside me on the park bench in Sendai, Oikawa said: 

“I found him at the other end of the bar. He wasn’t too much older than I was. When I came over, he touched my face. Looked me up and down and said, ‘My God, you’re beautiful. Come home with me. I want to fuck you silly.’”

I put my hand over my mouth. A strange mix of emotions rose within me. But surprise was not among them.

Oikawa had gotten good-looking towards the end of middle school. Soft giggles had started to follow us whenever we walked past. Younger boys had started to wear their hair like his. Dainty pink letters would appear on his desk. Suddenly, everyone had wanted part of Tohru Oikawa. And my jealous little heart had thudded impetuously against my ribs. 

_Go away. You can’t have him. He’s mine. Mine. Mine._

I think Oikawa could sense what I was thinking, because he gesticulated abstractly. 

“Don’t be upset, please. You have to understand: it was real, the way he looked at me. He was _amazingly_ handsome. I had never kissed a guy before. And it sounds terrible, but I had started to give up on you, Iwa-chan. All of my love, all the years of my wanting: it couldn’t turn you into something you were not. I had started to accept that as true.”

“Oikawa,” I said helplessly. 

Had he really ached for that long? Was it possible he’d known this pain even longer than I had? I had the horrible vision of him crying alone in a darkened bedroom, clutching his tangled sheets to his chest, while five blocks away I slept soundly, my dreams pleasantly filled with giant monsters who rose out of the sea and fought each other with lasers.

I’d really thought I was protecting him. All along, I was just another reason he’d been hurt.

“Anyway,” said Oikawa, “We went back to his place. He told me he was a third-year, and I was a little more convinced he wasn’t a serial killer.”

He paused.

“And?” I prompted.

“‘And,’ what do you think? I knew exactly what I was there for. We started messing around. The blowjob he gave me was just–”

I choked on the breath I’d been holding, which sent me into a coughing fit. Oikawa ignored me.

“–it was _unreal_. You should’ve heard the way I squealed. And then– _yes we used a condom-_ we moved on to other things. I came so many times that night I think the alley cats would be ashamed. I never mentioned I was a virgin. He felt terrible when I told him the next day! You could just tell. He took me out for breakfast and I had to reassure him a million times that I was fine before he finally believed me. We went out for a few months after that, and tried pretty much all the stuff you’re thinking of.”

“Oh,” was all I could really say. 

He broke into another hyena-like laugh.

“What? What is it? Are you disappointed not to be my first? Trust me, you should be thankful you’re not the first person to try and put something up my ass.”

“Oikawa,” I said, my face burning, “Holy shit.”

“So, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa, “Don’t be afraid for me, okay? I’m not some sniveling kid you have to look out for anymore. And I’m gay. I’ve been sure of that for a pretty long time. Everything the rich boy said about me– everything you didn’t want me to hear– trust me, I’ve been called worse to my face. It hasn’t changed a thing. So don’t mistake your own fear for mine. As long as we’re together, there’s nothing to worry about.”

I bristled.

“That’s not fair,” I said, “You know I’ve always had to worry for both of us. All the times you worked yourself until you were sick. All the times you plunged forward headlong with your eyes closed. I _worried_ , Oikawa. And I don’t mean to say I’m not happy I did. Of course I’ll always want to take care of you. So, please. _Please_ don’t think that, it’s because I don’t care.”

His expression softened. 

He said, “Who’s going to take care of _you_ , Iwa-chan?”

I thought of Mina. Of my mother. And even Kai. I would survive this. 

Everybody had to.

“I’ll be okay,” I said, “Really.”

Oikawa shifted and wrapped his arms around himself. 

“So,” he said, looking away, “What’s going to happen to us once we leave this park?”

My silence, I suppose, was all the answer that he needed. 

He wiped the last of the tears off of his face and stared into the distance, at the rooftops of our hometown covered in the first snow. Everything was so familiar here that it was a little bit upsetting. Like no matter where I went in life, there was a string on my heart that would bring me right back here to this park by his house. If Oikawa wasn’t going to be part of the future, then he would take his place on the other side of that string, drawing me ever backward into the past.

Once again, I wondered who this person was: the one sitting right next to me; the one I loved so much.

Someone I knew. Someone I once knew. Someone I thought I knew.

“You know,” said Oikawa pulling me from my thoughts, “No one’s ever kissed me like that before. Like you did last night. I was thinking that to myself afterward.”

“Oh, yeah? And what way is that?”

He gave a sad little shrug and pulled his coat zipper higher over his scarf.

“Like… I don’t know. Like you would never have the chance to do it again. _Only me, only now_. That’s how you made me feel.”

We lingered a bit longer until the adults gathered their kids up and went home. Then, some time later, we silently rose from the bench and went our separate ways.

That was the last time we were alone together over winter break. The one time I went over to his place for dinner, his older sister talked animatedly throughout the meal to cover the conspicuous silence between Oikawa and me. Thankfully, Oikawa’s nephew Takeru, now a first-year in middle school, occupied most of our attention for the rest of my visit. 

And Oikawa was fine. I know, because I was watching closely, waiting for dark bags to appear under his eyes, or for his skin to take on that pale, bleached tone it always did when he stayed up late. But it didn’t happen. It seemed like Oikawa really had grown up, after all. Once or twice I think I might have caught the sweet stink of liquor on his breath, but that was all. 

We took the train back to Tokyo on the last day of winter break. As we neared the last stop together, I turned to him.

“It’s not over between us,” I said, “I know this isn’t new for you, like it is for me. I’m sorry I don’t have an answer for you right now. But I will. Can you wait for me just a bit longer?”

How was he supposed to know what I meant? Yet it was the best I could come up at the time. And while Oikawa didn’t exactly smile, I think I saw something like relief in the corners of his mouth as he gave the tiniest of nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December! Thank you for reading!


	8. Stronger Together

For me, the song of cicadas will always mean summer. 

They were out in droves the summer we turned six years old, an endless trilling whine under the lazy blue sky and the sun that never went down, even by bedtime. On one such dog-day, sweltering and humid, I first saw him leaning against the wall of the gym during our lunchtime break at the Little Tykes Volleyball Summer Camp as I passed by on my way to the vending machine.

A mean-looking kid with close-set eyes had apparently spotted him at the same time. As I watched, he advanced on Oikawa like a territorial mutt. I overheard him sneer: “Hey, _you_. Are you a boy or a girl, anyway? I really can’t tell.”

Eagerly, I rolled up my shirt sleeves and walked toward them, in case there was going to be a fight.

But Oikawa only tossed his nut-brown hair, puffed out his little chest and coolly replied, “Either way, I’m prettier than you are, scrub.”

I was delighted. He was either an idiot, or had no desire for self-preservation at all, or both, but he certainly wasn’t boring. 

It was lucky I was there. When the big kid drew back his open right hand, prepared to smack Oikawa across his smart mouth, I grabbed that would-be bully from behind and threw him aside, where he stumbled and fell. Now, the two of us, Oikawa and me, looked down at him.

“Beat it, ugly,” I snarled as viciously as I could, brandishing the angry vaccine tracks on my shoulder. He spat at me and stalked off. I looked quickly at Oikawa then, to see if he’d noticed how tough I was. 

But he ignored me.

“Hey,” I said, nudging his arm, “Aren’t you that weird kid from Aoki- _sensei'_ s class?”

He rolled his brown eyes, which were honey gold in the sunlight.

“Whatever. I don’t have the slightest idea who _you_ are,” he sniffed in reply, “Just another tiresome brat who’s obsessed with volleyball, probably.”

I was annoyed. I’d just saved his sorry ass, hadn’t I? And here he was, looking down his delicate nose at me, as though I were no better than the _ijimekko_.

“Jerk,” I snapped, “If you hate volleyball so much, why are you here, anyway?”

Oikawa sighed and examined his fingernails, as though he’d rather search for the imperfections in his cuticles than give me the time of day.

“For your information, my father _compelled_ me. _Apparently_ , trying on my sister’s makeup isn’t the proper way for me to spend my _aestival reprieve_. He made me choose between volleyball, soccer, and basketball. I picked volleyball, because there’s less shoving.”

I didn’t know half the words he used. His obnoxious vocabulary added to his air of precocious cool, and in spite of myself, I burned even more for his approval. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said in a rush, “Volleyball’s _fun_. You’ll see. It’s the best sport, like, probably ever.”

Oikawa looked over at last, mildly interested in spite of himself.

“Oh? And what’s so great about it?”

I squatted down and pressed my forearms together, miming a receive. 

“It’s the feeling you get when you hit the ball just right,” I explained, “ _Whoooomf–_ it goes right where you want it to. That’s a pass, to one of your teammates. Like maybe the setter. And then he’ll set it up– _whoosh–”_ I was no setter, but I spread my fingers before me and jumped, like I’d seen them do on TV– “And then the spiker smacks it. _Blam!_ Straight down before they know what hit ‘em.” 

And I swung my arm down. Oikawa leapt aside to avoid injury from my enthusiasm. His demeanor had changed somewhat: he seemed awake now, even a little hungry.

“Sometimes,” I went on, “A rally can go on for a long time. Like, you think it’ll hit the floor and then, _zoom_ , the libero dives for it and it goes back up. It’s like, oh man! How long can this ball stay in the air? It’s– _awesome_.”

He still said nothing, but continued to observe me from behind his long eyelashes. 

“I’m Hajime Iwaizumi, by the way,” I said, and bowed, though he hadn’t asked.

And then he bowed back. Except his was an elegant, polite, proper bow. 

He said, “I’m Tohru Oikawa.”

The whistle blew from the gym. It was time for us to go back inside. 

As we slipped through the door, I nudged his arm again and said, “Hey, Tohru-kun, pass to me during the scrimmage, okay? And I’ll pass to you, too. We’ll be stronger that way.”

He never did manage to get a pass up to me that day– mostly he stumbled around and knocked the ball off the court if he touched it at all– but for the first time, it looked like he was actually trying. 

Although, if he caught me watching him from across the court, he blushed self-consciously and turned quickly away. 

At the end of practice, I grabbed my water bottle and threw my bag over my shoulder, and was prepared to walk home and let myself in with the latchkey when I felt a tug on my sleeve.

“There’s a park by my house,” he said, clearly trying to sound nonchalant, “You can come with me, uh, if you want. We can catch bugs.”

Cicadas actually survive quite a long time. Three to five years, for most species, but some can live up to seventeen. They spend almost their entire lives eight feet underground, burrowing around and drinking sap. That’s how they escape their predators– by simply outliving them. But when it’s time, adult cicadas burrow out of the ground. They molt one last time. And then they finally spread their wings and fly into the sun. 

Their singing is loudest in the evening. You can hear them right by your ear when you stand under the trees. To catch one, you squish some rice onto the end of a bamboo pole and poke up into the leaves. That summer, and for a few more after that, Oikawa and I walked to the park near his house every afternoon after camp was over, and trapped them in glass jars. 

It surprised me that a kid like Oikawa wanted to wade around in the muggy heat looking for bugs, but it turned out that he adored them. He thought they looked like little jewels. I soon learned that his snobby insouciance had all been an act. He wasn’t cool at all when he was really excited about something.

“Iwa-chan!” he had squealed in undisguised glee when he managed to capture a monstrous specimen and wrestle it into the jar, and I knew then he was a big dork just like everybody else. But I didn’t mind. We were friends now.

We would press our faces close together and ogle at our prisoners through the clear curve of the glass: at their iridescent green armor; their large, exotic eyes, their long, pretty wings. We always let them go before we went home. 

Because cicadas die the same year they come out of the ground.

Did you know that? They spend years and years of their lives in the dark, figuring out what they’re supposed to be. And then they see the beauty of the world for just an instant before it’s lights out forever. It’s a little sad, but that’s just the way it is. I used to feel sorry for them. 

But summer after summer passed, and side by side Oikawa and I ecydysed out of innumerable pairs of worn-out sneakers and took turns losing the rest of our baby teeth and steadily added centimeters to our height– he finally surpassed me in fifth grade– and we sped through time, oblivious, past the collapse of the World Trade Center, the economic crisis, the Arab Spring, and the earthquake that sent waves roaring onto the runway of Sendai Airport and into the reactors of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant just one prefecture away; and finally, time passed even beyond that. Then the first seventeen years of our lives were finished, filled up as they were with disaster and banality and, every once in a while, the truly sublime. 

Yet it was only at the very end, on that last evening we spent in the Aoba Johsai gym with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, when I looked beside me, and saw the tears rolling down Oikawa’s face...

Only then did I see clearly that it hadn’t just been volleyball I had loved. And I knew I’d been wrong to pity the cicadas, because, really, I was just like them.

Oikawa would have to wait for me just a little longer. But that was all right. I knew that he trusted me enough to hang on for the time being. 

I was twenty years old.

That was too young to feel like my life was passing me by. Too young to feel like the machinery that determined my future had been set in motion long ago. Even if destiny was inescapable, I felt certain I could at least decide what kind of person I became. You have to go after what you want while you still have the chance. 

This all seems like an utterance of pride, of arrogant self-sufficiency. 

Yet could I have come to that conclusion if Oikawa hadn’t kissed me back at the high school, the old sanctuary of our youth? If he hadn’t looked at me the way he did, in that soft, baffled way of a young person in love? Because, and, yes, I could say it now– I was completely and foolishly in love with him. I, so reluctant to be reckless, so mistrustful of extremes. I’d already decided, if he wanted it, I would give him everything. 

But the timing wasn’t right. Not yet.

These thoughts occupied my mind as I walked to the law library, holding two cups of coffee rapidly cooling in the February wind, and a plastic bag full of snacks slung over my wrist. Mina had told me she was encamped there for her upcoming exams, and I thought it would be nice to bring her some food. She seemed so stressed lately. 

I hid the coffee under my coat as I entered the glass building. The quiet of the library pressed in. You could actually hear individual pages being turned by genius-looking students who somehow seemed smaller than the enormous tomes they were poring over. 

Mina’s favorite table was nestled in an alcove among the stacks. When she saw me, she mouthed a “Hello!” and waved. The entire tabletop was covered in books and stacks of legal-size paper. On the other side of the table sat another law student named Kumiko whom I’d met once before. Her hair was dyed the color of iced coffee, and she had on dark eyeliner that gave her a cool, aloof kind of expression. 

Mina was wearing a loose sweater, sneakers, and square black glasses I hadn’t seen before, but which inexplicably tied her outfit together. She looked tired, though. Her hair was messy at the edges, and the shadows under her eyes made her skin look especially colorless in the pale light of the library. Her expression dissolved into relieved gratitude when she spotted the smuggled coffee. She put her pencil down and sank back in her chair, stretching. 

Kumiko made a good-natured gesture of dismissal, silently inviting us to go outside while she watched Mina’s stuff. Mina gave thumbs-up in gratitude, and then shuffled some papers around, searching for her phone. 

As she did so, I noticed the corner of something colorful and glossy peeking out from under a pile of annotated articles. Curious, I reached for it. When Mina saw my hand moving across the table, she scrambled to snatch the object before I could, but it was too late. I unearthed the thing and held it up. 

I had to forcibly suppress my laughter when I realized what it was. Mortified, Mina buried her face in her hands, and Kumiko’s jaw dropped in sheer delight. 

It was a paperback romance titled, _The Passions of the Samurai_.

The cover featured a pretty woman wearing a feudal-era _kimono_ and a ravished look on her face, along with the titular samurai, a musclebound man with an extremely chiseled jaw, holding her by the waist. I can’t imagine where Mina found such a book, since it seemed like the kind of thing sold exclusively at flea markets or discovered under stacks of magazines at hair salons. 

I couldn’t believe it. Mina, who always insisted romance novels were sexist and unrealistic. Mina, who had read through a full translation of _The Tale of Genji_ before she turned twelve years old. 

Flipping to a random page, I scanned and found a passage that began, _“...her bosoms heaved in desire at the thought that her maidenhood would be claimed by none other than the famed warrior himself…”_

I set the coffee down so I could run my hands sexily down my body, swaying my hips as I traced over my pretend voluptuous figure. Mina, her face now strawberry red, grabbed the book and smacked me with it hard before shoving it deep into her bag. The sound rang out through the completely silent library, and Kumiko, who had pulled out her phone to take a picture, collapsed in suppressed mirth across her meticulous ledger of notes.

When we finally made it outside, she blurted out, “I only read stuff like that when I’m really stressed out, I swear. I don’t actually think it’s good.”

“Sure,” I teased, still grinning, and patted her head affectionately. She made a face and took a sip of coffee, her fingers hidden in the sleeves of her sweater except for the neatly groomed tips.

“I have to do well on these exams,” she said, “I need recommendation letters to apply for clerkships this summer, which is probably where I’ll end up working for the rest of my life. Man, that seems weird to think about.”

“That sounds really tough,” I said, “But you’ll do well, Mina. Don’t get too anxious.”

I fished around in the bag of snacks that I’d brought, and picked out a nutritious snack bar from one of my favorite brands. “Here, eat one of these. Your brain needs glucose in order to function, you know.”

Mina carefully tore off a corner of the wrapper and took a small bite of the soft brown bar. 

“This is good,” she said.

“It’s got flax seeds,” I explained, “Which contain omega-3 fatty acids. That’s a good kind of fat. Here, try this later, too. It has fifteen grams of protein.”

“Wow. Thanks, Hajime.”

She tucked the second snack bar into her bag, probably next to where _The Passions of the Samurai_ was still hiding. 

“How was winter break?” she asked, “You must have seen plenty of Oikawa-san.”

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

“Um, what?”

She raised her eyebrows. 

“Because you guys are from the same hometown?”

“Oh, that. Yeah. We saw each other.”

It was hard to make the words come out. If only there was a way to make someone simply understand something without saying it aloud. I focused all of my psychic energy on Mina, trying to get her to ask me the question whose answer I so badly wanted to tell her. 

Mina studied my face.

“Hajime, did something happen?”

Which, I suppose, was as good a question as any.

I told her about the talk I’d had with my mother, and about the night we’d climbed the fence of our old high school, a night that still didn’t seem real to me. About his tears the next day, calling me out. About the quiet train ride back to Tokyo.

Mina listened, asking a few questions every now and again for clarification. When I finished, she nodded to herself, as though the story I’d told added up.

“Well,” she said, “what are you going to do?”

It was the same question I’d asked myself ever since returning to Hachiouji. 

“I’m going to make up for what an idiot I’ve been,” I said, “Oikawa was right about me. Remember what Shikichi said after his dad got me taken off the volleyball roster? I was hurt, and I was angry. But part of me also felt a little guilty– like I was some kind of criminal, and he’d caught me. Like I was somehow putting Oikawa in danger, too. But, I don’t know. Protecting him, by pretending to be someone else– that’s not what Oikawa needed from me, at all. I want to get to know this person that I really am. And the things I could never say I wanted, I _want_ to want them, and to make them real. I’ll fight for them, if I have to. Does that make sense?”

Mina played with her sleeve.

“It seems to me like you want to stop wishing things would happen. You want to really chase them down. You’ve realized that your suffering doesn’t really help Oikawa-san, after all.”

I liked it when she did that. When she put my thoughts into her own words to show she’d really heard me. 

“Yes,” I said, “That’s it.”

“So,” said Mina, nodding, following her orderly thoughts to the next logical step, “You’re going to try and re-join the volleyball team, then.”

Of course she’d figured that out. 

I’d told her, on occasion, that I was okay being off the team. That I’d become disillusioned, that it would be too painful to go back. 

But the truth was that volleyball had raised me. Volleyball had filled my summers with frustration and sweat and joy. Volleyball gave me Tohru Oikawa. I really, really missed it. And I respected it, like I’d respect a teacher and a friend. If I ever did leave volleyball behind, it would be on my own terms. 

I’d vowed that if I ever had the chance to play again, I would never take the opportunity for granted. And then I’d decided I wouldn’t just wait for that chance: I’d go back and take it with all that I had. It seems self-indulgent, I know. But it was the right thing to do, what I _needed_ to do, or else I would always wish I had.

“Yes,” I said, “Yes, I want to play again. I want to play for as long as I can. I don’t know how, but I really do.”

Mina gave another small nod.

“If that’s the case,” she said, “I might be able to help. You may have a case for misconduct and bribery here, which you can use to your advantage in a negotiation if you can find a few more details about what happened. I didn’t know if I should bring it up, because you’d risk butting heads with higher-ups, not to mention Shikichi’s father. But if you want to fight this, Hajime… I’ll stand by you.”

I looked at her, surprised and moved by her offer.

“You really think that could work?”

She considered, weighing the facts. 

“I think so,” she said, “A lot of times, there’s no need to go to court. Like, sometimes just putting legal pressure on someone can change their mind. It’s just that, often, no one even tries to push back because they’re worried about pissing off dangerous people. But the law exists to give everyone something to fight with, even if they don’t always win. And I bet if you can try to incentivize people the right way, they’ll be more likely to take your side. For instance, Hachiouji stands to benefit from the reputation of having a volleyball team that can actually win. So you could use that. And there’s no real reason you should be off the team just because Shikichi’s on it– other than for him to rub it in your face, of course.”

“Yeah,” I said, excited at how possible she was making this sound, “I bet I could start there. But, Mina, I can’t accept your help. This is my fight, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Mina smiled and touched my shoulder. 

“That’s still a bad habit of yours, Hajime,” she said, “You’re so quick to defend other people, and too proud to accept help for yourself. But a lot of people want to help you, if you’ll let them. On the whole, people are good more than bad. I’ve always believed that.”

A few days later, Mina and I walked together toward the athletic center to pay a visit to the director. I still couldn’t believe I was really doing this, trying something so risky just to be able to play a club sport for a couple more years. 

But I remembered what my mother had said: _“Sometimes, it’s not about winning. It’s about doing something you’re proud of. Even something as simple as refusing to back down without a fight.”_

If I let Shikichi get away with this, I wouldn’t be his last victim. The next time someone else crossed him, he’d deal with it the exact same way. He’d intimidate and bully and bribe his way through life, and one day, he’d inherit his father’s corporation and he’d wield enough power, in addition to money, to satisfy his every whim at the expense of others. Because power is a thing taken by force. Those who have it will keep it, unless confronted at every turn by the people they thought were weak and insignificant. 

After leaving Mina that day at the library, I had flipped through my contacts until I reached Kai Okada’s name.

When I tapped it, our last message exchange popped up on my screen, almost two months old now:

_me: thank you for the call. don’t worry about me. i have close friends to lean on. Best of luck in the championships._

_Kai: ok good. again, reach out any time. you’re always welcome back._

I hesitated for a moment, and then decided to get straight to the point. I typed:

_i'm going to talk to the athletic director the day after tomorrow. i know it’s a lot to ask, but can you back me up?_

And after my next class, when I checked my phone again, he had replied:  
  


_yeah. say what time. i’ll meet you outside the building_  
  


And then a few minutes later, another message:

 _glad we’re doing this_

I contemplated the message. _We._

Was it possible that I’d never really been alone at all? 

When the day arrived, true to his word, Kai was waiting for us a short distance away from the Athletic building. But to my surprise, he wasn’t alone. 

They were all there. Well, almost all.

“Kizuki-kun couldn’t make it,” explained Kai, “He had to give a presentation in class today. But he wanted you to know he’s with you, too.”

They were all wearing their official black Hachiouji uniforms. As I walked up, they opened their ranks to Mina and me. 

“Guys,” I said, deeply touched, “Thanks. Seriously. If this doesn’t work–”

“It’s going to work,” said Kai firmly, “It doesn’t matter how rich Shikichi’s dad is. He can’t play without the support of a team. And you’re part of that team, Hajime.”

Tamura, the libero, added, “We’re stronger together, remember? After we found what happened, we wanted to make things right. You looked out for every one of us when we got hurt. You made sure none of us overworked, that we stretched properly, that we weren’t too stressed out, even if there was a match coming up. None of us forgot about that. If it’s all right with you, we’d rather stay as your teammates.”

Kai nodded decisively.

“Yes. We’re going to fight for you.”

I didn’t know what to say.

I’d been so crushed back in August I hadn’t even been able to face them, let alone ask them for help. And I’d once lost my shit at Oikawa, too, for the very same reason: for forgetting that he had friends, and that he didn't need to kill himself trying to become superhuman. 

Yet, when it had been my turn to lean on others, I’d withdrawn, instead. 

Not anymore. I had Oikawa. I had Mina. My parents. My team. People who had seen me uncertain and breakable, and who wanted to stand by me, regardless. I vowed silently, right then, that I would not forget that. That I was worth befriending. Worth loving, worth fighting for. And I would return the loyalty and generosity shown to me, and pass it on to others.

How else were we going to fix the world?

I walked once more through the Athletic building, the rest of them following just behind, past the black-and-white photos and glass cases full of trophies and plaques. This time, I was there to claim the right to carve my name among them. 

When, at last, we reached the door to the athletic director’s office, they stepped back and waited. 

Through the frosted glass, I could see the blurred silhouette of the athletic director at his desk. My heart hammering, I knocked on the door.

There was a second of silence, a breath drawn on the other side. 

Then in a voice that sounded mildly stern: “Come in.”

We entered.

The athletic director, a paunchy man in an Adidas jacket, sat waiting at his desk with his fingers steepled.

What I had not expected was to see two other people in his office. The first was a silver-haired gentleman dressed in an expensive-looking charcoal suit. 

The second was Shikichi. 

When Shikichi turned around to see the entire team filtering in through the doorway, his face crumpled into an expression of dismay. 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” I said, looking over his head at the athletic director, “I’d made an appointment.”

The director coughed. He had expected me to be alone, too.

“Yes, Iwaizumi-kun. You’re acquainted with Shikichi-kun. This gentleman is Chairman Shikichi, of Shikichi Motors. The two of them requested to be present at this meeting. I hope you don’t mind.”

I bowed stiffly to Chairman Shikichi, who did not smile. And again, I noticed that Shikichi Junior, whom I expected to be full of smug confidence with his father at his side, looked like he was the one caught in a trap. 

I addressed the director.

“Sir,” I said, “I’ve come to ask for a position on the volleyball team. I was a starter last year, but I was cut in August, which goes against a strong precedent set at Hachiouji.”

Before the director could reply, Chairman Shikichi stood up to face me. He was about my height, though I’d always imagined he would be much taller.

“Iwaizumi-kun, I gather,” he said, “I think you need to learn a lesson about the way the world works. As I was just explaining to the director here: if you annoy me, I can make things difficult for you. You know, when Junior told me about you, I would have been happy to let you stay on warming the bench. All I asked was that you step aside so that my son could be a starter. But you had the audacity to say no to him. To _me_. That’s unacceptable. Please tell him, Mr. Director.”

The athletic director shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. 

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Iwaizumi-kun. We can’t run the athletic program, or the volleyball team, without Chairman Shikichi’s generous support.”

But now Kai stepped forward and stood beside me.

“Actually, Mr. Director,” he said politely, “We were wondering how you intend to run the athletic program without any _athletes_. And how Shikichi-kun intends to play volleyball without the other five players on the court.”

“That’s right,” said Tamura, “We’re Hajime’s teammates first. And we always will be, even if it means we can’t play volleyball. If Hajime can’t play, then we’re going to resign. We won’t be part of a system that’s this corrupt.”

Chairman Shikichi’s face took on an angry, blotchy red hue.

“How dare you,” he said, in a voice considerably less composed than it had been, “If I want to, I can have your athletic scholarships taken away. I can make sure not a single one of you finds a job after graduation.”

“That’s illegal,” said Mina softly, as she, too, walked into his view, “And paying for admission onto an athletic team, which should be based on merit, constitutes bribery and fraud.”

Chairman Shikichi’s eyes darted from Kai to Tamura to Mina as each of them spoke.

“My lawyers will crush you, little girl,” he spat.

“Maybe,” said Mina, “But why go through all that trouble? All Hajime wants is to be able to play the sport he’s loved for his entire life. What do you have to lose, Mr. Chairman, except letting go of a little of your pride?”

And now, for the first time, Chairman Shikichi seemed to really consider what we were saying. He started to pace around the small office, as though weighing the two options. I felt a glimmer of triumph. Even if he didn’t change his mind, our words had had an effect on him. 

“My son stays on the team, as a starter,” he finally insisted, “As long as this is the case, it’s fine by me if Iwaizumi-kun plays as well.”

But suddenly, the younger Shikichi, who’d sat silent and miserable-looking this entire time, opened his mouth to speak.

“Dad,” he cried, his eyes filling with anguish, “I don’t want to be a starter anymore, okay? I hate it. I hate getting crushed by the other team every single time. I hate that I can’t keep up at practice. I hate feeling blamed for everything. So, can’t we just forget it?”

I couldn’t believe it. All these months I’d hated his guts, and, even after what he’d done, I felt bad for him then. 

“You wanted to be a star,” I realized aloud, “You wanted to be part of a team. You wanted to feel good about yourself. And instead of working toward these things, you just pushed me out of the way and tried to take them from me.”

Shikichi looked at his feet. He had nothing to say to that. 

“The thing is,” I said, though now I was looking at the Chairman, who appeared thunderstruck at his son’s admission, “If you’d just asked us, we would’ve helped you get there. We would’ve helped you with your technique. We would’ve helped you get better. The trust of your teammates– your instinct and skill on the court– you can’t buy that, period. That’s why people love sports so much. If you can’t understand that, you’re never going to be even halfway decent at volleyball.”

Chairman Shikichi now glared at his son.

“Say something,” he demanded. 

But Shikichi seemed to shrink as he glanced up to see us staring down at him. This time, he was the one who was alone, who was left out. By now, I knew what that felt like. 

Finally, he blubbered, “I’m sorry. Please, Iwaizumi-san, forgive me. You’re right about me. All I wanted was the things you said. I ruined that, and it’s my fault.”

That was a start. But it wasn’t enough.

“That’s not all,” I said, “You insulted my best friend and me. You made me feel hurt, angry, and alone for months.”

Shikichi hung his head.

“I’ll change,” he said, “I’m not going to be that guy anymore. I swear.”

These weren’t words I ever thought I’d hear smirking, sneering Shikichi to say. I wasn’t sure what to do with them. I believed him when he said I was sorry. I believed that he wanted to change. But all the same...

“I want you to know,” I said, “That your apology doesn’t undo the damage that you’ve done. It never will.”

I glanced over at Mina, still standing beside me.

 _People are good, more than bad_. 

I wanted to believe that. I wanted to go on through life helping more than hurting; to do things at which I could look back and be satisfied. I wanted to be the kind of person who gave others second chances, even people like Shikichi. And right now, surrounded by people I trusted, I suddenly felt like I was strong enough to do that. 

“Nothing you do will change the fact that you hurt someone. Remember that. I forgive you, Shikichi, though others in the future might not, and shouldn’t have to. But if you’re really going to be better– if you’re truly sorry– then we can be teammates. If you still want to try.”

The athletic director, still crouched behind his desk, and the chairman both stared apprehensively at Shikichi. Everything depended on his response. 

Slowly, Shikichi lifted his face and looked at me. He looked suddenly young, and lost. Even so, his gaze sent a shudder of dislike through me. It would be a long time before that feeling would fade. 

“Well?”

And Shikichi nodded.

So, in the end, I got my starting position as left-wing spiker back, though it hadn’t gone at all like I’d expected. I joined practice the very next day, and every single guy on the team greeted me with a hug. Everyone except Shikichi, who still had trouble looking me in the eye. But he went out of his way to grab me an extra water bottle during a break.

“Thanks,” I said, and spared him a small smile.

I was a few months out of practice at this point, but the movements came back to me more easily than I’d expected. It helped that I’d managed to stay in shape. The slap of the ball against my forearms - the medicinal smell of Air Salonpas – the sound of the whistle marking off our drills– it all suddenly felt so wonderful to me that I can’t believe I’d ever lived without it.

That night, I wrote everything down in a letter to Oikawa. 

I’d never written anyone a letter before, except as part of an elementary school assignment. I’m not even entirely sure what possessed me to do it now. The best that I can explain it is that, well, letters, they leave a space in between people. As the sealed envelope makes its journey, from the mailbox, to the post office, to a delivery truck, and finally to someone’s front door, that whole time, you wonder where it might be. You wonder when the other person will pick it up, and when he’ll read it. And the wondering, the waiting– that’s almost being with the person, in a way, from afar.

At the end of my letter, after I’d already signed it, I wrote a few more lines:

_Oikawa– I know I’m not that good with words. I hope you’re not still too upset with me. If you are, I understand. I’m sorry. It scared me a little, learning how much you’d managed to grow up without me. But I need you to know that seeing you again over the last few months just made me miss you more than ever. It’s like going home makes you feel homesick all over again. I feel for you more than I can say. Please let me come back to you. I’ll be ready this time._

I folded the letter, pressed my lips against the crease, and slipped it into the envelope. I dropped it into the post the next morning on my way to class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Thank you for your comments and kudos... as a fanfic writer I cannot stress this enough, they mean so much to me. Even a quick "I like this" just makes my whole day. Oikawa comes back next week. And, it's going to go a lot better for them this time. ;)
> 
> Twitter - @KMyuutsu


	9. Alexander the Conqueror

We didn’t do so well in the first official match of the year, but things were coming along. I felt good about the upcoming Spring Tournament. By then, the growing pains would have subsided, and Hachiouji would be strong again before its annual showdown with Totsuka. 

After the incident with the athletic director, Shikichi’s attitude toward me had virtually reversed itself. He now looked to me for approval on everything, from the way he crouched down to receive, to his choice of stretches after practice. 

He even went so far as to threaten other people when he thought they were insulting me. I think he was trying to make up for what he’d done, in the only way he knew how. As awkward as it was to have him constantly jumping to my defense, it meant that he took his past actions seriously– and I couldn’t help but appreciate that. 

The following Tuesday, I left my knee pads at the gym by mistake. I realized it an hour later, and by then it was close to six o’clock. I threw sweats on over the clothes I’d worn to practice, and jogged all the way back to the gym through slush-covered streets, the price for my carelessness.

Someone was already in the gym when I got there.

His back was turned in the half-darkness, and as I watched, he threw up a toss and served. The ball clipped the net and thudded to the ground, where it joined about fifty others littering the gym floor. 

I turned the lights on, and wasn’t surprised to see who then twisted around, just now alerted to my presence.

As worn-down as Shikichi looked, his face salt-streaked and his movements unsteady, he straightened up and composed himself when I approached.

“I grabbed your pads,” he said, and pointed to where he’d left them carefully folded on the bleachers. 

“You need to stop,” I said, “You’re exhausted.”

But Shikichi shook his head, disgusted with himself.

“I screwed up every serve in last weekend’s game,” he said bitterly, “I’m the reason we lost. I should’ve been benched the whole time.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue. 

Still, I was reminded then of a different city, a different boy, and a different gym. In spite of myself, I felt the same compassion toward another teammate who, like the other one, owed that unpayable debt to the world, and to himself. 

“Shikichi,” I said, and surprised myself with the gentleness in my voice, “working yourself to death doesn’t mean you’re going to get what you want. I told that once to a good friend of mine. Muscles grow when they rest, not when they’re broken down.”

I helped him pick up all the volleyballs on the gym floor, and showed him a few stretches before sending him home. 

“Eat a healthy dinner, and get some sleep tonight,” I instructed him, “Then take it easy tomorrow. They give us a day off every week for a reason.”

I searched in my bookbag and retrieved the battered copy of _Volleyball Physical Training_ by Takashi Utsui. After dusting off the lint on the cover, I held it out to him. 

“Here,” I said, “I’ve been reading this since high school. This Utsui guy has a lot of good advice about avoiding injuries, and targeted exercises you can try. It’s my only copy though, so please don’t lose it.”

Shikichi’s eyes shifted back and forth in confusion. Finally, he accepted the book with both hands and bowed.

“Iwaizumi-san,” he said, “thank you.”

Dusk had fallen by the time I finally made it back to my apartment building. I still had a Chemistry assignment due tomorrow that I had to finish, and some reading for English. I yawned, fumbling my keys. When I opened my eyes again, I frowned and blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. 

Oikawa was standing by the door. 

In spite of the weather, he wore only a light jacket over a turtleneck sweater. His bookbag was slung over his shoulder.

I rushed to him. Slipped and almost fell. Regained my balance and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him.

“Oikawa,” I said, horrified, “it’s freezing. How long have you been out here?”

Oikawa grinned apologetically.

“I got here twenty minutes ago– wanted to surprise you by ringing the bell, but you weren’t home. I was about to call, what took you so long?”

I explained about Shikichi and the knee pads as I unlocked the door and hurried him inside.

“I can’t stay long,” said Oikawa, “but I wanted to see you. I got your letter today.”

I took his bookbag as we climbed the stairs. It was a school night. He shouldn’t have been here at all. But it was hard to get mad when I was dizzy with joy to see his face again.

I closed the apartment door behind us, and hung up our things as he removed his shoes, sniffing at a runny nose.

I kicked off my sneakers and stumbled toward him in my sock feet. As he straightened, I threw my arms around him and held him tight. 

He laughed softly and leaned into me. 

“Iwa-chan–”

His hands were freezing. I took them and pressed them to my chest, warming them through my T-shirt. Just under his fingers, my heart hammered conspicuously. Neither of us said anything about that. It wasn’t a secret anymore, the things his presence did to my body.

And as we stood there, cramped and cold in the entryway, I decided I couldn’t bear it any longer; I couldn’t stand another second where he wasn’t mine–

“Be my boyfriend, Oikawa.” 

I felt the breath hitch in his chest. 

“What?”

His eyes darted over my face. Then he seemed to make sense of what I’d just said, and the color deepened in his wind-bitten cheeks. 

I leaned in closer, holding his hands against me.

“I said, ‘Tohru Oikawa, I’m in love with you. I want to be with you. I want to stay with you for as long as I can. I want to be your boyfriend.’ So, will you please date me?” 

He stared at me, a struck smile frozen on his lips. 

Then he gave another soft little laugh. He pulled his hands away, steadied himself against the wall, and laughed again. 

“What’s so funny?”

He gasped for breath, doubling over.

My cheeks burned. How had I actually done something this embarrassing? 

“I– I–”

“Oikawa–”

“I’ve barely taken my shoes off,” he said, wiping his eyes, “I’ve only just walked in the door. I’ve waited– God knows I’ve waited my whole life for you to ask me that, and here you are now in this big hurry– We haven’t even left the _genkan_ –”

And he dissolved again into breathless laughter. I started to grin, too, realizing how ridiculous it was. I reached for him and steadied his shaking body against the wall. 

“Can you blame me, not wanting to wait a minute more?”

Oikawa had stopped laughing, but I could still feel him breathing in funny, short bursts. 

“No,” he said, “no, I don’t blame you. And yes. Yes, I’ll be your boyfriend. I want to date you, only you. And I love you, Iwa-chan. I love you very, very, very, very much. I’ve loved you since before I knew what it meant, definitely since before _you_ knew, so, there– there’s your ans–”

I started to kiss him before he’d finished his sentence, and he panted out the last few words around my lips before giving up.

He pressed back against me now with a new, forceful intensity– and it was still so different, the weight, the hardness, the angles of _Oikawa_ in my arms, instead of the soft curves of a woman– and we stumbled through the apartment, our hands all over, on our blind, clumsy path to my bedroom. 

We stopped one last time in the doorway– he grabbed the collar of my shirt, shoved me against the doorframe and rasped his tongue over my bared throat, and an animal grunt of frustration escaped me. I was unable to stop kissing him even for a second.

And then the kissing wasn’t enough anymore; just an overture, an unfulfilled promise of what I really wanted, and when at last we landed heavily on my bed, he twisted away from me and removed his shirt, arching his torso prettily, theatrically, in a way I knew was intentional, like he was an actor in an underwear commercial, the fucker.

Meanly, I pushed the base of my palm against his groin. At my touch, he whimpered and surged upward against my hand.

I felt immediately drunk with power.

He glared up at me, his bare chest heaving, his face flushed and his eyes hazy like they got when he cried. Oikawa’s shoulders were broader than I’d realized. His boyish waist, which used to slim down to nothing when he fasted before our games, had thickened and straightened out. I groaned aloud in reverence.

The male form was beautiful. Oikawa was beautiful.

I dug my hipbone into him where my hand had been. I kissed the hollow of his neck, the crest of his clavicle, the edge of his ribs. My next kiss, hungry and deep, was on his ridged stomach, just below his navel. 

Oikawa suddenly twitched and scrambled up to his elbows. 

“What’re you doing?” he muttered, coming halfway to his senses. 

I lifted my face for a brief moment.

“What the hell do you think?”

He looked like he might faint. 

“You don’t have to,” he said, “Really.”

Something in his voice temporarily quieted the animal in me.

I slowly eased off and lay beside him.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. 

Oikawa nodded.

“Yeah. Fine. It’s just that the last time– you know, over winter break– I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Like, did I go too fast? Did I rush you because I’d wanted that for so long? Iwa-chan, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I’d forgotten all about that. The memory rushed back at once: I’d yanked my hand away. And it had been eating at him ever since. 

“Oikawa,” I said, moved, “thanks, but it’s not like that. It’s not because I feel like I have to, or anything. I just like you more than I think I'll ever like anyone, and I want to show you. Is that okay?”

He looked once more into my eyes and saw that I meant what I said. Then, silently, he nodded and lay back down. 

After unbuttoning his pants, I hesitated. 

“Just so you know, I tested negative for all sexually transmitted illnesses at the student health clinic last week.”

“I was negative for everything a month ago,” replied Oikawa, lifting his hips obligingly to help me undress him, “and I hadn’t had sex with anyone for three months before that.”

Satisfied, I touched the tip of my tongue somewhere that sent a shiver up and down him, which fascinated me. 

I asked softly, “Do you remember the time in the changing room?”

“I remember,” he whispered back, “though at times, it seemed like just a dream.”

“Yeah, “ I said, “just a dream. I think of it almost every day. A dream more real than life. Like you are.”

That was the last thing I said, before I placed a final gentle, lingering kiss in the crease of his thigh. 

Then it became impossible for me to say anything at all.

Somehow, it had always been easier for me to give pleasure than it had been to let someone else take me apart. I’d never sucked cock before, but it didn’t take me long to figure out what felt good to Oikawa. 

Even before I knew I was into him, I used to wonder idly how Oikawa talked in bed. Like, maybe he would be the type to constantly mutter expletives. Or maybe he was a screamer, one of those people you hear through the walls when you're trying to sleep.

The truth was a lot more ordinary than that.

Mostly, he held his breath and let it out in bursts. From time to time– say, if I went a little deeper, or tried something new with my tongue– it was a soft moan, like an “oh.”

I loved this new sound so much that I pushed the blunt hardness even deeper into my throat until my eyes watered, a perverse, primitive satisfaction.

Right before he came, he burst out, “oh, my God–” once, and tightened his fingers in my hair. 

The lilting string of squeals and yelps that subsequently spilled out of him filled me with adoration and triumph. I held him in my mouth for a long time as his body, flushed and sweaty, quivered beneath me.

His warm bitterness lingered on my tongue even after I’d swallowed, and I wondered what I should do next. Mina had always dashed to the bathroom afterward to rinse her mouth before she kissed me. 

But before I could, Oikawa took me by the jaw and licked greedily into my mouth to taste the traces of himself that remained there. 

Then, still holding my face, he said, “Your turn.”

I wriggled free.

“You’re going to miss your train.”

“No, I won’t. 

“Oikawa, seriously–”

He tackled me. He was totally naked now, while I was almost fully clothed. He succeeded in pinning me down as I laughed and thrashed about. 

I was wildly, giddily happy. 

“You think you can get away with that?” he cried, “You think you can send me to paradise and then throw me on a train, you bastard? Iwa-chan–”

“‘Iwa-chan?’ Don’t call me that when I’ve just _blown_ you _–_ ”

He stopped wrestling for a second to consider this, looking mortified.

“Oh, fuck, you’re right,” he said, “Sorry. Force of habit. What should I call you, then? _Danna-sama–_ ”

“–you freak–!”

He started to tickle me. He still knew where all of my most sensitive spots were. I curled up into a ball, wheezing, but he jabbed at my exposed flanks. When I twisted the other way, he attacked my armpits.

 _“Iwaizumi-san–!”_ he yelled next.

“What the fuck!” 

And then he held me down with one hand, and with the other, beat my chest like a drum, saying, “Hajime. Hajime. Hajime,” like a sacred incantation.

Oikawa undressed me.

“You haven’t showered, have you?” he asked, his voice soft and low.

I tensed up.

“Uh, no,” I admitted self-consciously, “But I can, really quick, if–”

“Don’t you dare.”

I was offended.

“Oikawa, if this is about my three-in-one whole-body cleanser again–”

He pushed me down on the bed impatiently. 

“No, stupid. I like the way you smell. When you’re a bit dirty, I mean. It used to drive me insane.”

Oh.

I blushed forcefully and shut up.

When at last I was bare, Oikawa ran his eyes slowly up my body. His expression just then filled me at once with contentment and pride. I’d never again feel inadequate. I’d never doubt myself again if I could just picture the way Oikawa looked at me now: like I was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen; like he could never look enough.

When he put his mouth on me, I tried to imagine myself the way I must appear to him: precious. Lovely. Deserving of pleasure. I took a few deep breaths. I sank into his touch. The walls of my bedroom melted away.

Then I did, too.

Now, I was something formless and unreal. All I could see before me were Oikawa’s vaguely wicked-looking brown eyes, gleaming through the fog, and I grew aware of a sensation at once bliss and agony. Slowly, ruthlessly, he broke me; he rent me apart piece by piece like a devil from paradise. And why, _why_ , if it was my cock he had in his mouth, did I feel the molten pleasure spreading all over me, like women were supposed to feel, like referred pain, but referred bliss...? 

Someone was shouting in the distance, or on a TV playing in the next room.

A second later, I realized that someone was _me_ – and I had no idea what I was saying. And then a slow rumble started in my ears, like thunder through the clouds of a faraway storm, or a train lumbering into the station, and the sound grew into a roar. The train bore down and the lights glowed brighter and brighter and now I heard screaming, but it wasn’t the train, or even the wind howling in a storm. Instead, it was an animal, a young man, to be exact, crying out in utter surrender–

Until finally, the sky went white; the sounds faded to silence, and then there was a moment of true perfection– the moment after the bowl of plums falls off the table, just before it shatters; the moment the wave reaches its full height just before crashing on the shore; the moment time itself surrenders and ceases its onslaught for a single breath...

And now, returned to my heaving, sweaty mortal body, I found myself clutching Oikawa to keep from drowning. 

Gradually, the world became real again. The sky was dark outside my bedroom window. My damp sheets were crumpled beneath me. And Oikawa was holding me. That was real, too. 

"Welcome back," he said, stroking my hair.

His tone, and his touch, were more tender than anything I could remember, and it was almost jarring. My best friend had really become my lover. 

Then he grinned and said, “I heard some interesting things just now.”

The blood flowed slowly back to my brain.

“What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know? You don’t remember anything you said?”

I rubbed my temples and sat up. Now I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“Crap, what did I say? Was it embarrassing?”

“For your information,” Oikawa cackled, “you were shouting, ‘Please, please, it’s not fair. Fuck, Oikawa, you don’t know what you’re doing to me–you don't even know–’ ”

I clapped my hand over his mouth before he could continue, my face burning all over again. I hadn’t believed myself capable of voicing such ecstasy, such helplessness. I was learning things about myself all the time, it seemed.

My conqueror lay down next to me and draped his arm across my chest. 

“Iwa-chan,” he said, “are you happy?”

What a dumb question. 

I was about to tell him that, but for some reason, my next breath came out as a sob.

And before I knew it, I was trembling, and gulping, and choking out, “I’m happy. I’m so happy. Oikawa, please don’t ever leave me.”

Then the rain poured out of me. I lay there naked in his arms and wept like a child.

How silly it was, crying over a blowjob. And here I was, in hysterics, all because he’d taken me in his mouth and shown me what love feels like when you don’t have to pretend. My heart was going to burst. Without him, I would die. I would really die.

And this time, Oikawa was the one who held me fast as the storm coursed through me. He was the one to stroke my back and make shushing noises in my ear and tell me everything would be all right. 

“I’ll never leave you,” he said, “I promise. We’ll be together now. Always.”

“Always,” I sniffed, as though repeating the word would somehow increase its prophetic power; as though asking the universe to witness the promise he made me would mean he’d have to keep it. 

But Oikawa, I knew, had other promises to keep, and I would come to learn that asking him to stay still was like asking the same of a river. His destiny was the ever-changing course forward, onward. Mine was the opposite: to be constant; to stay true to what I believed in when the elements came forth and rocked us, to build my life around the canyon he’d carved in me, too deeply to forget. 

The next few months would pass viciously fast and I would remember them with an obliterating fondness– only the good; none of the bad– and think, what a gift, to be able to take someone for granted. To grow accustomed to his voice, his face, his way of combing his hair in the morning; to tell him, “I love you,” when it didn’t also mean, “I miss you more than anything.”

But here, now, all was finally well. We walked to the train station in the dark, our bodies still unwashed and painted with each other underneath our coats. After he had gone, I closed my eyes to savor the rumble of his train as it faded away, leaving me cold and raw on a platform full of strangers.

And I was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update this week guys! I'm scrambling to get a few things done before the holidays, and have an upcoming exam to prepare for.... thank you for your patience, and for reading. It literally still blows my mind that people on the internet actually care about what I write. You guys are actually the best.
> 
> I've also just realized that this is way longer than I was expecting... this was supposed to be a 30k and we've passed that with 3 chapters to go, oh dear. I'm pretty sure this is getting more and more indulgent as we go, so forgive me. I might go back and cut some things later.
> 
> Twitter - @KMyuutsu


	10. Hephaestion

A new, nagging feeling had taken me the last few weeks after getting together with Oikawa. The feeling began like a premonition, but less scary. It wasn’t so much that I could see into the future, but rather that I knew Oikawa too well– knew that in spite of everything, in order to stay with me, he’d have to betray a different part of himself. 

This had occurred to me before, but only as an abstract notion, a shadow on the edge of a daydream. But it came to me more and more often, during the times I had Oikawa asleep on my chest, and I found myself idly memorizing the details of his face without really knowing why. 

Then later, in the shower, I was able to put the feeling into words: this wasn't going to last. A sweeter, more powerful voice than mine would call Oikawa’s name. And once again, he would have to obey.

As for California, I’d first gotten the idea from Kai, who’d told me how impressed he was by the team’s progress. Even Shikichi had graduated from warming the bench to playing half a set in every game.

“Obviously everyone’s put in a lot of work,” said Kai, “but you’ve helped a lot. Just think about it. You’re good at this, Hajime– you’re good at making other people better.”

I ventured into online forums. Composed emails to my old coaches and upperclassmen, hunting for connections. The first responses had trickled in by late February. One day, a name popped up in my inbox that made my palms tingle. 

By March, I’d booked a plane ticket to the United States.

Hollywood movies and iPhones come from California. And, I thought while deciphering the overhead signs of the John Wayne International Airport, trying to find the exit, that’s about all I knew about the place. When I finally made it past baggage claim and out of the sliding doors, a burst of light greeted me, in a first loud, exuberant American welcome. 

Orange County was drenched in sun, even before the first breath of Spring. 

I waited for my Uber, using the time to examine my appearance in my phone camera. I tried to flatten my hair in the back where the airplane seat had messed it up. Then I straightened the collar of my shirt. Maybe it would look better with the top button unfastened. I tried it both ways.

Five minutes later, a man named Vasily picked me up. He squinted at the small screen mounted on the dashboard of the Hyundai Sonata. Then he glanced at me briefly in the rearview mirror.

“Ha- _jeem_? Going to UC Irvine campus?”

“Yes. Please. Thank you,” I replied solemnly in halting English. Filling in blanks on test sheets was one thing; groping around my brain for the long, consonant-heavy words was another.

“You look nice. You have meeting?”

“Interview. Uh… for–”

“Job?”

I nodded. It was close enough.

I spent the ten-minute car ride staring out the window at the unfamiliar terrain. Tall, gangly palm trees lined the broad road, their fingerlike leaves swaying far overhead against the cloudless blue sky stretching deep into the smog on the horizon. We passed by a number of squat, indistinguishable office buildings and sprawling parking lots, a composition so careless and ugly that it was accidentally beautiful.

“MacArthur Boulevard,” I read aloud from a rectangular sign.

Vasily nodded without looking around.

“MacArthur. Big American General,” he explained, “World War Two.”

But of course I’d heard of the man whom my countrymen called the _Gaijin Shogun_. During the Allied occupation, the infamous photograph of him standing next to Hirohito, in which MacArthur towered over the slim Japanese ruler, had sent shockwaves through the Japanese public; had reduced Emperor Hirohito to a mere man, while MacArthur himself achieved the status of a living god. He had remained an object of hero worship for the length of his six-year reign. And later, preparing to leave my country, he’d declared Japan– which had so adored him– a backward child, a twelve-year-old boy compared to the mature, _Anglo-Saxon_ country, Germany.

I felt queasy all of a sudden. I was reminded that my black hair, my smooth face, my accent, would mark me in some parts of this vast, imperfect nation. I hadn't been Japanese until I'd left Japan. Just what did I think I was doing here?

“Here we are,” Vasily said.

Sure enough, the plaza we’d pulled into was draped in glossy banners bearing the logo of the University of California, Irvine. 

I weaved through the square, concrete columns of the mall, searching for the ramen restaurant whose name matched what I had written down on a slip of paper. This was where I was supposed to meet Takashi Utsui.

But every storefront looked the same, and I had to squint against the blinding sun to distinguish the letters of the shop signs, each in a different, unfamiliar font. My insides began to churn anew. At this rate, I would be late.

The weirdest of coincidences happened then. 

A deep, flat voice behind me said, “Hajime Iwaizumi.”

I turned to a face I hadn’t seen in two years.

Here were the same square jaw and thick eyebrows; the same shuttered, mechanical stare that I’d met so many times through the volleyball nets of our official matches: Wakatoshi Ushijima, our high school rival, who had gone pro right after graduation. Ushijima of Shiratorizawa Academy; Ushijima of the iron serves and raw strength that used to send Oikawa into conniptions of jealousy and rage, who had blocked our path to Nationals year after year until there were no more years left.

But now, the syllables of my name pronounced in Ushijima’s deep voice were the only Japanese spoken to me all day in this strange land of horizontal shop signs, dingy bus stops, and drivers sitting on the wrong side of the car.

Ushijima bowed stiffly. 

I bowed back. He was from Sendai, just like me. This far away from home, it was practically like seeing family. 

“What brings you here, Iwaizumi-san?”

“Uh, I’m meeting with an athletic trainer to talk about an internship. What about you?”

Ushijima raised his thick eyebrows at me.

“Are you meeting Takashi Utsui?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

And Ushijima said, “Takashi Utsui is my father.”

We walked into the ramen restaurant together and sat down at the table where Utsui was waiting. I could see where Ushijima's straight eyebrows and square jaw had come from. But Utsui had the tanned skin and easy posture of a man who'd been overseas for a while, and a friendlier, though worldlier, set to his mouth. After we’d ordered and settled in, Utsui looked me over, and I felt like my backpack must have, going through the scanner at customs.

“You must be serious about this,” he remarked, “to make the trip all the way out here.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “I’ve read your training manual for a long time. It would be an honor to work with you.”

Utsui’s face remained friendly, but difficult for me to interpret. Had that come off wrongly? Too forward, perhaps?

“That’s nice to know,” he said, “But, Iwaizumi-kun, tell me why I should take you on.”

My heart began to race then. Utsui could see right through me for what I was: a kid playing at adulthood, a boy dressed in the clothes of a man. I had no leverage. No experience, no cunning. 

The only thing I could offer was sincerity.

“I’ve been an athlete for my entire life, sir,” I said, “I’ve always pushed my body to do more, and grow stronger, and I truly love that feeling. I want to be close to it for the rest of my life. It’s my dream, and I want to give it all I’ve got.”

I think that might have been the most American thing I’ve ever said.

The waitress reappeared with three enormous black plastic bowls of ramen on a tray.

“Say I accept,” said Utsui, leaning away from the table as she set his steaming noodles before him, “what are you thinking for a salary?”

I opened my mouth, then hesitated. Forty thousand American dollars a year. That was standard– it was reasonable. It was what I'd planned on asking for. But now I had to actually say the number aloud.

Then Ushijima, who’d been silent this whole time, said, “Dad. Come on.”

And Utsui, his bluff exposed, grinned, and said, “Forty-two thousand plus benefits is what’s in the budget. Will that do?”

Stunned, I nodded. 

He reached across the table, and we shook hands. 

That’s how I ended up entering that American ramen restaurant as a university sophomore, disheveled from an hours-long international flight, and walked out as the future intern to Takashi Utsui, the trainer for the UCI Polar Bears. 

All afternoon, my stomach kept flipping over in excitement. 

In the many months I would spend here in Orange County, I’d come to get used to the oddities. I’d learn how to catch a bus to LA. How to convert from centimeters to inches in my head. How to order a hamburger in English– no cheese, no onions, no ketchup– from a drive-thru. How to choose a health insurance plan.

But even as I grew acclimated to America, I would feel at times even more acutely that longing for home. More than any place, it was a feeling– a feeling like seeing your house from the end of the street, with the lights all on and nobody inside. 

When Oikawa would eventually tell me that he was leaving Japan– not for a few months, or even a few years, but that he was really _leaving Japan_ – the pain would glance through me even as my heart soared for him, and the ache would settle in beneath my joy. And I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't chased his dreams across the ocean without looking back, if he hadn't flown where I could not follow, and instead he had stayed, just for me.

But it was impossible. He couldn’t remain in Japan with me any more than I could leave. Though I’d come to America so I could one day face the world, it simply wasn’t in me to join the diaspora forever, not for any dream. Two years was enough. When I finally returned home, I’d almost kissed the concrete ground in front of Tokyo Narita. 

I am not Tohru Oikawa, although I love him.

Ushijima and I hung out a bit more, afterward. Here in the world, he and I were far more alike than different. 

Even so, it surprised me a little to hear him say, “You know, Iwaizumi-san. I could never figure out why Oikawa-san didn’t like me. I’ve never understood what I did wrong.”

It surprised me because Ushijima hadn’t ever seemed to care what people thought of him at all. But the answer to his question was simple.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Actually, it had nothing to do with you, Ushijima-san. You beat him, that’s it. He enrolled at Aoba Johsai to play against you, when he could have gone to Shiratorizawa, where you’d have been unbeatable as setter and spiker. But he chose instead to battle you. And he lost.”

And then, unexpectedly, Ushijima pulled his broad lips into a smile.

“I'll take your word on that," he said, "but you’re mistaken about one thing. Oikawa-san didn’t choose Aoba Johsai so he could defeat me. Even I know that. He did it so he could fight by your side for three years more. And I admit, I’ve always envied you for that.”

After Ushijima and I parted ways, I made one more stop before returning to the airport. 

The car dropped me off by the pier. In the distance, sunlight glinted off of the roiling teal surface of the ocean. It was the first time I’d ever seen the Pacific from the other side. 

I took my shoes and socks off and walked along the shore, past umbrellas and concession stands and couples entwined on their sandy towels. Plastic frisbees sailed lazily over the windless beach. The seagulls cried. America’s many problems were not to be found here. Not out on this sun-drenched strand stretching as far as the eye could see, a gold streak disappearing into that impossibly blue sky.

After I’d walked a short distance, I came across another familiar sight: a volleyball net, strung between fat aluminum poles sunk in the sand. 

As I walked by, my eyes full of longing, the man chasing the runaway ball called out to me, first in English, then in Spanish. 

I gestured toward myself.

“Japan,” I clarified, and the man clicked his tongue, as if to say, _but of course_. Then he simply mimed throwing the ball, and pointed toward the side of the court opposite his own. This I understood right away.

I set my shoes down on the edge of the court, stripped down to my undershirt and rolled up my trouser legs. Then I jogged into the place left empty for me on the left wing. Each step I took sank into the course gray sand. There were all sorts of people on the court. Middle aged Latino men like the one who’d beckoned to me, waistbands snug around their brown beer bellies. Two young women in neon bikinis, who might have been around my age, and their mothers. There were no crowds, no referees, no stakes here– just rally after rally under the California sun just starting to sink into the sea. 

_Amigo_ was an easy word for me to pronounce. I learned a few other phrases that day. Including _adiós, hasta luego_ , _que tengas buen día_ , which the whole crew cried after me, waving, when I finally bowed out after my last set. 

On my way back to the pier, I stopped to take a selfie with the sunset behind me. Then, as I prepared to call my ride back to the airport, I heard someone shouting after me. I looked over my shoulder.

It was one of the young women who had just been on the court with me. Her skin was golden brown. The fading light shone on the highlights in her long, dark hair. She was asking me for something, and I leaned in closer, trying to understand. 

“... your number. Your phone number?”

I nodded in sudden understanding. I scrolled through the photos saved on my phone until I found the one I wanted to show her. It was a blurry picture of Oikawa and me, our arms around each other, at the top of Tokyo tower from a few weeks before.

“I have a boyfriend,” I enunciated carefully, turning the screen around.

She looked at the photo, and then gasped, and smiled.

“ _Que lindo_ ,” she proclaimed, “Beautiful. I’m happy for you.”

And then she flitted away back toward the beach, like a bird set free. I waved after her, even though she couldn’t see. 

Oikawa and I were watching soccer when Sugiyama walked into the living room and loudly cleared his throat. We looked up. He had an overnight bag slung across his shoulders. 

“Well, I’m off,” he said, “I’m going to be at a sleepover with the game club. I’ll be back at some point tomorrow. Uh, probably around noon.”

We glanced at each other, and then back at him.

“Sounds fun.”

“Enjoy yourself, Sugiyama-san.”

He walked out the front door and locked it behind him.

We were astounded. First, by the fact that Sugiyama, of all people, had actually picked up on things. For the last month, we had made sure he was safely locked in his room or out at the convenience store before messing around under the throw blanket with the TV volume turned up too high. Had we really been that obvious?

And second, by the fact that he’d gone so far out of his way to make sure that, for the night, we had the apartment to ourselves. 

The soccer game continued on the television. The channel logo flashed across the screen, and white and blue lights played over Oikawa’s face, illuminating his cheeks. I no longer had any interest in the outcome of the match. 

I slipped my arms around him. He half-smiled, leaning into me, still watching the screen. I kissed the angle of his jaw. Then I switched off the television.

“Iwa-chan,” he said, feigning indignation.

In response, I kissed his mouth, harder than usual.

Our lips then fell into their familiar rhythm. We rose from the couch, our faces still connected, and he guided me out of the living room and down the hall. Once inside his bedroom, the door wide open, we undressed facing each other, in no particular hurry, because tonight we had all the time we could possibly want. And finally, I pushed him roughly toward the bed, where he landed facedown on the navy blue duvet, his bare thighs trailing over the edge. Then I knelt on the ground behind him.

Later, we lay beached across his bed, still dazed at what we’d just done. 

My cheek was pressed to his stomach, and his arms were draped loosely around me. 

I listened to his insides rumbling beneath my ear, and thought of them curled up in the warm darkness of his belly, and how I’d just been inside him too, in a place of rare softness, like the body of a mysterious undersea invertebrate.

He spoke now, in a barely discernible whisper.

“Iwa-chan, was I good for you?”

“Yeah, Oikawa. Of course.”

“And, Iwa-chan… was it worth it?”

I lifted my face and frowned. _Worth it_?

“What does that mean?”

“You know. Being with me. Is it worth all I put you through?”

His cheeks were still red, his eyes forlorn and beseeching. I shuffled off of him and penguin-slid over the sheets to lie next to him.

“You’re a real dummy, you know that?”

“Mean–”

“'Worth it?’ As if that were a question. As if being with you was any kind of a sacrifice.”

And Oikawa smiled, at last consoled. He wriggled closer, and I tilted his chin toward me.

“But,” I added wickedly, “don’t think this means I’ll go easy on you next week when Hachiouji plays Totsuka.”

Oikawa wrenched away the pillow I was lying on and started to pummel me with it.

“Don’t tease me when I’m vulnerable, Iwa-chan!”

He was back to his normal self. 

I grabbed the pillow out of his hands and wrapped him up in the duvet like a one-hundred eight-five centimeter long _temaki_ roll. I put my arms around him, duvet and all, and I kissed him and kissed him. 

He finished me off in the shower. He sat on the floor and blew me as the warm water streamed over us from above. 

“Your water bill’s going to be killer this month,” I said. 

He stood up and wiped his mouth with a bit of water.

“Money well spent,” he said, shrugging.

The shampoo was almost out. I unscrewed the top and peered inside, then stuck my index finger in, carefully gathering the bits of remaining shampoo from the walls of the bottle. I noticed Oikawa watching me with great interest as I did this.

“I know what you’re thinking, you pervert,” I accused, and he grinned. 

I began to lather it up in his hair. I started at his temples and worked back, until his entire head was covered in fluffy white suds. Then I smoothed his hair down with my palms so it was all slicked down, making him look like a circus seal, and I snickered. 

He stood obediently still as I washed the rest of him, ears to toes. I was careful to scrub more gently over his right knee, which had never stopped causing trouble. There was a thin vertical scar down the middle where he’d gotten surgery during our senior year of high school, but you could barely see it now if you didn’t know it was there. He watched me all the while, his fingers draped on my shoulder, quiet now, though not too long ago he’d been wailing into the mattress so loudly and savagely that I’d stopped, sure I must be hurting him. 

“What does it feel like?” I wondered aloud as we rinsed off. 

The water had grown cold. Oikawa paused in washing the last bits of shampoo out of his hair.

“During?” he asked, “or right now?”

“Both.”

He thought for a moment.

“During, it’s… weird, and kind of intrusive, at first. Then good. Satisfying, like being touched where you’ve always needed to be touched. But with you, it’s different. With you, it was like… I don’t know. Like getting my soul massaged. Like feeling so safe, and so loved, that it was almost like being in the womb again. And afterward… afterward it feels like a kind of lightness. Everything soft around the edges. You know how sometimes it’s a relief to cry for a really long time? How it releases all the tightness in your body? It feels like that, I guess. That’s how I feel all over, but especially in my asshole.”

He peered at me sideways.

“Would you want to try it sometime?” he asked.

I pondered what he’d just said, intrigued.

“I’ll try everything at least once,” I decided.

True to his word, Sugiyama didn’t come home until noon. When the front door opened, Oikawa was making pancakes on the electric portable stove, while I tipped instant coffee mix into mugs of microwaved water. 

“How was your sleepover?” I asked.

“It was fun,” said Sugiyama. He set his overnight bag on the floor and removed his shoes. “I won the tournament.”

“Congratulations,” said Oikawa, and expertly flipped over a pancake. 

Sugiyama stood there on the threshold in his sock feet, watching Oikawa and me in the kitchen. We both turned around as we felt his gaze. 

Then, very deliberately, Oikawa leaned in and kissed me lightly on the mouth. 

“We’re making a late breakfast,” I explained, blushing, even though it was perfectly obvious, “Why don’t you join us?”

We sat down around the coffee table and had pancakes and coffee with Sugiyama. The entire time, he seemed to be trying to hide a smile. He even helped us tidy up before he disappeared once again into the darkness of his room, shielded from daylight even at this hour by long blackout curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! We survived. Thanks for reading :) Quick thing, the last 2 chapters might take me around 2 weeks each. Sorry about this… I have to do a substantial amount of work on them and also need to reserve some brainpower to study too ;; 
> 
> Twitter - @KMyuutsu


	11. Don't Look Back

Behind me, Kizuki bounced the ball once on the gleaming gym floor. The lights beat down. The six exhausted, sweat-slicked faces of the Totsuka starting line stared at us from across the court, mirroring our own. Their jersey numbers gleamed white on red. 

One, Makoto Ito, the left-wing spiker. 

Two, Oikawa, his setter’s eyes darting over the court like searchlights. 

Five, the tiny libero, crouched in the left corner.

Seven, a dependable all-around player. Eight, an agile opposite hitter. Ten, the towering, mustachioed middle blocker.

The scorecard read: 23-24. 

It was the end of the third set, and still match point for Totsuka, but we had finally won back the serve. Our cheering section, a sea of black jammed against Totsuka’s red in the stands above, were clearly thrilled we’d even taken a set from them. They could think that. But we couldn’t– we needed a whole three points in a row to win this thing, and Totsuka, currently the nationally top-ranked collegiate team, hadn’t given up a single point easily.

They’d chased down every last free ball, dove into the wings after would-be block-outs, slid for every spike. Even those of us who recognized this as a sign of respect were worn down by their tenacity. 

The next point brought the score to a deuce: off of Kizuki’s serve, the receive and two fast touches barely sent the ball back, and Kai slammed it down the line. 

The approving cheer from the crowd all but drowned out the ref’s whistle. I met Oikawa’s eyes through the net. His grin had an edge to it: _N_ _ext one’s ours. You wait._ And I was oddly comforted. Oikawa would never bend, not even for me. As long as we were on opposite sides of the court, he’d fight me with all of his reckless perfectionism, all of the strength in his lean, familiar frame. He’d wear me down everywhere he knew I was weak. I’d never have to worry about facing anything but Oikawa’s best.

The rumble of the crowd dissipated as Kizuki’s serve toss went up once more.

He took four sure, quick strides into his flying jump, arching his body like a bowstring. Then the hollow, drum-like ring of his palm echoed through the gym and the ball sailed over the net, a blur on its diving course to court left. 

Seven’s receive knocked him back a half step. The ball flew straight up. In a blur of black jerseys, our blockers swarmed the net. Ito leapt the instant the ball connected with Oikawa’s fingertips, but the spike still wasn’t fast enough to escape Kai unscathed. It glanced off of Kai’s hands and flew toward the floor of our court, where Tamura scooped it up. Kizuki shouted my name as I was halfway to the net. I smacked the set down the left line. Dug up by their libero. Oikawa wheeled and ran for the ball again. Red jerseys fell back into position… 

Only one of our teams would win, and we weren’t doing badly at all. But watching Oikawa play on the other side of the court– eating up height and distance in easy, powerful strides; directing the spikers almost telepathically, the trust of his teammates evident in their every gesture and glance– I wished, if only for a single ridiculous instant, that my jersey was red, too.

People always wondered whether I was ever jealous of Oikawa; whether Hephaestion ever wished he were Alexander. I’d never thought about it that way before. All our lives, it had always seemed like Oikawa’s success was for both of us. 

Now, at last, I knew sort of what they meant. But it wasn’t Oikawa I envied.

It was my younger self. 

It was the kid who, for fourteen years, had always run beside him. Sometimes I’d pull ahead, and sometimes he would, but neither of us ever needed to look over his shoulder to make sure the other was still there. And perhaps, just a little bit, it hurt to see him not only running, but leaping, flying, soaring, without me there at his side.

So, then, if it was my only choice– if it was the only way I could make sure he’d still see me- then I’d defeat him.

The spike shot past our blockers in a stunning cross-court cut, and– this was pure instinct by now– I dove after it, slid to the very edge of the court and– _yes–_ caught the falling ball with my wrist, a centimeter within the smooth blue line with one touch to spare. And Kizuki leapt over me, twisted gracefully, and tipped the ball straight down onto Totsuka’s court, a setter dump so effortless that the ball barely made a sound as it connected with the slick floor. 

25-24.

Kizuki served a third time. Oikawa snatched it up, Ten bumped it into position, and Ito bounced it off the blockers straight back to the libero, who easily passed to Oikawa. An unexpected back toss to Eight, who snuck it into the back corner. 

25-25.

Eight’s serve: precise, powerful. Its lethal momentum shattered against the arms of our defensive specialist. Kizuki flipped it across the court to me a little hastily. I aimed for center. Blocked. Dug up again– unbelievable– by Tamura. 

The set went up to Kai again, clean, the spin of the ball barely perceptible as it floated upward. His palm connected with merciless certainty. Almost too fast for the human eye to see, the spike ricocheted off the middle blocker’s forearm and plunged into the stands.

I slapped Kai on the shoulder, and we both wheeled to stare at the scoreboard. Could it really be? The crowd had noticed, too, and its formless noise coalesced into murmurs of amazement.

26-25: Hachiouji’s match point. 

My serve.

Volleyball is a team sport. There was never a winning spike without a solid receive, a great pass, a skillful set behind it. None of us ever get anywhere without other sets of hands lifting us up. I know that.

But there’s one moment in volleyball you play alone, and it’s the same moment when you can call to another person on the opposite end of the court. That moment is the serve. 

And sometimes, when serving, it can seem like you are alone with that person, if only for that brief moment. It can feel like you’re playing a game for two, not twelve.

When Oikawa’s eyes locked on mine, something odd happened. 

It seemed like the crowd, which had been shouting my name, was getting further and further away, until it was no longer there at all. The brightly lit Hachiouji athletic center was no more; instead, we were back in our old school gymnasium, dark except for the starlight streaming down from a single skylight, and we were alone on the volleyball court from long ago. 

Across the net, the six-year-old Tohru Oikawa looked back at me, his little pink tongue poking out from between his pursed lips. The net seemed strange and warped, and absurdly tall, and I realized that I, too, was six again, barely able to touch the top of it if I jumped. 

When I blinked, we were middle schoolers. The characters _Kitagawa Daiichi_ were stamped across our chests. As I watched, they cracked and faded away, worn off by a hundred turns in the washing machine. And Oikawa grew lanky and graceful and taller than me, but hadn’t quite grown into his big hands, hands that were now folded across his chest in a familiar gesture of defiance. Thirteen years old and already he wasn’t satisfied with what the universe had given him. Damn it, why curse him with such a tremendous appetite and so little with which to feed himself? 

Talent was wasted on those who couldn’t know half how much he wanted it. 

And on top of everything, here was Iwa-chan, and the feelings that were supposed to go away instead became wild and dizzying, and didn’t fit into the locked cupboard he hadn’t even known was there until they’d come bursting out. So Oikawa learned that he had to keep on running, to keep on chasing the light on the horizon. Because paradise was not a place, but a direction, a call, an intoxicating pull. 

He ran, and he ran, and he didn’t dare look back. 

Now it was the summer of our seventeenth year, and in the rising sun, the cicadas pushed themselves out of the ground and shook the leaves off of their backs, and they flew into the trees to be caught by young boys poking sticks up into the branches. Oikawa enrolled at Totsuka University, because they gave him a better athletic scholarship, and it was silly to follow your best friend to college, wasn’t it? A best friend who’d never feel the things you felt for him? 

And he hoped I’d be just a little bit upset when, after class, he told me his decision in faltering tones; but no, Iwa-chan didn’t look sad at all; in fact, Iwa-chan was so happy for him, so quietly but unmistakably proud, that he wanted to punch Iwa-chan across the mouth that would never kiss him. 

Next thing you knew, Iwa-chan was shoving a milk bread into his hands and running off the train as the doors started to close, and the tears wouldn’t stop, as many times as the older lady in the next seat looked over in pity and understanding. And he thought about eternity and the weight of every choice he made, borne out again and again in the endless cycle of the universe; how everything counted, everything had to count for so much. 

Unless time didn’t repeat at all; unless, instead, time was one long, meandering river, and our lives nothing but an ephemeral ripple within it, with only one beginning, and only one end. Then after we’re gone, what happened in the span of the years we lived is of no consequence of all, and is as light as the clouds now floating past the windows of his train. And so no one will ever know if your choices are the right ones after all; the only way onward is to chase after what your half-formed wisdom and inconstant passion states you must... 

_Watch me now, Iwa-chan_ , _from wherever you are. Watch me win every battle that people thought I had lost; watch me rule a kingdom to which I have no birthright._

_Watch me on TV one day, making all of our dreams come true. Watch me–_

_You watch me too, Oikawa._

_I mean it. You don’t get to think of me as the best friend you left behind. You don’t even get to win this game. I’m not going to make it that easy for you to outpace me._

_Maybe I’ll watch you on TV one day, but today, we’re standing on the same court, wearing different uniforms._

_So, you watch me._

We weren’t in a grade-school gym; we were in the athletic center of my university. This wasn’t Sendai, this was Tokyo; we were twenty, they were shouting my name, the scoreboard read 26-25 and it was Hachiouji’s match point.

Slowly, aware of absolutely everyone’s eyes on me, I walked into the server’s corner. Spun the scuffed yellow regulation volleyball against my palms. Looked through the net again at Oikawa staring straight back, his smile both an encouragement and a challenge. 

I held the ball out before me. The crowd fell silent. A tremor started in my fingertips. I took a long, slow breath, and willed my heartbeat to steady. The shaking stopped. 

I threw a straight, easy serve toss. Gathered my legs underneath me and registered the sweet ache in my thighs as I jumped. And then…

And then I was weightless. The falling ball seemed to slow to a stop before me, suspended in midair.

In the split second before impact, I honed in on the space directly in front of Oikawa. Then I struck with all the force of my love for him, with all the tender cruelty of my longing. If I could find no other way to speak to him, I was sure he would understand this.

The serve hurtled toward the net and cleared it by a hair. Oikawa’s eyes widened as he understood. He knew instantly, exactly, where the ball would land as soon as its trajectory started at my palm. Knew exactly where he needed to be in order to pass it to the libero, who in a pinch would be able to set it to Ito. 

He knew, but there was not a single thing he could do about it, because his limbs simply wouldn’t be able to move fast enough. 

The ball grazed his wrist, and then sank deeply, definitively into the gym floor. The whole thing took less than a second: the ball thudded. Bounced once. The whistle screeched. 

We won.

The crowd erupted. My teammates rushed in. Kai pulled me into a hug. Shikichi and the others rose from the sidelines. I started to laugh in relief and triumph. _The time I got a service ace past Oikawa_ , I’d say in the future at parties, _Greatest freakin' day of my life._

Chattering excitedly, we cleared the court to gather our things, still a little dazed at having won a match, let alone against Totsuka. I crouched down to pick up my duffel bag. My thighs burned in earnest now. The game over, my body allowed itself to feel the full extent of its exhaustion. 

It felt incredible.

Someone nudged my shoulder. When I looked up, he was standing above me in his warm-up jacket, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and his knee pads in hand.

We walked a short way up into the stands and sat down as the rest of them milled around, drinking water, stretching in pairs, and changing. 

“Nice ace,” said Oikawa, “You caught me by surprise.”

I grinned back. 

“Don’t be so surprised in the future,” I said, “I’m not finished beating you just yet.”

He didn’t say anything. He moved closer to me and leaned forward on his elbows, looking out onto the now-empty volleyball court.

“Oikawa,” I said, “What is it?”

He paused for another moment as though reaching hard for the right words. Of course, I knew what was coming before he even opened his mouth.

“I was offered a position on a professional team,” said Oikawa, and then, as though ashamed, added, “in Argentina.”

I jumped out of my seat, ecstatic.

“Yes!” I cried, “Argentina? Well done, Oikawa!”

He laughed and pulled me back down by my jersey.

“‘Well done?’ You’re not going to make fun of me or anything?”

“No way. I mean, what would I even say? ‘You’re lucky they weren’t put off by your tacky personality?’”

“Something like that.”

“Congratulations,” I said, “It’s amazing news. Seriously.”

Oikawa hesitated again.

“I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet,” he admitted.

I stared at him.

“What?” I said, “What are you waiting for, dumbass? Don’t keep them waiting.”

But really, I was fighting a strange urge to cry. And Oikawa wasn’t fooled.

“It’s like you said in high school,” he said sadly, “ _‘You’re one of the idiots who will chase volleyball forever.’_ And you’re right. I feel like an idiot right now. Iwa-chan, did you know that all my life, I’ve only ever wanted two things? One was volleyball–”

He reached out and touched my cheek.

“And the other one was you.”

Spectators were filing out of the gym. The brassy noise around us gradually faded.

“All your life, huh?”

“For as long as I can remember,” he said, “Ever since I could feel anything at all for someone, I’ve felt it for you. It seemed like such an impossible dream back then. Just like becoming a professional athlete. It just couldn’t happen, _didn’t_ happen to people like me. And now, suddenly, both of those huge, impossible dreams are within my reach. And having to choose between them is almost worse than not having either of them.”

Pain flashed in his eyes. I felt it under my skin.

“Iwa-chan,” he said, “why is it that whenever I get close to you, it feels like we have to say goodbye?”

He put his face in his hands and sighed. Then, suddenly, his expression hardened, as though he’d just come to a decision.

“Tell me not to do it, Iwa-chan,” he pleaded, “Tell me not to go, that’s all I need you to do. Just ask me to stay with you, and I swear I will.”

And looked at me with wide eyes, waiting to see what I’d do with the future he’d just dropped neatly in my hands, bracing himself for each possible outcome.

Right then, I knew what I had to do; knew the only way forward for the two of us. Because paradise is not a place, and love is not a mere force of a universe, not something that simply happens to us like rain or stomach flu. No, love is something one person does to another. _I love you._

Love is doing.

“Don’t even think about that,” I said softly, “Playing for Argentina is your dream, remember? So for both our sakes, don’t you dare waste this chance.”

Oikawa shook his head in despair.

“Then,” he said, “I should offer you the same thing you offered me. I should say, ‘Iwa-chan, please let me go.’ I should say, ‘Iwa-chan, thank you for growing up with me. Thank you for being my best friend. Thank you for playing volleyball with me. Thank you for looking after me, the reckless fool that I am. And thank you for this year. I’ll remember it forever.’” 

He trembled. “That’s what I should say, but I can’t. Instead, all I can say is please, please, wait for me, Iwa-chan. I’ve loved you so long I don’t think I can stop. So I’ll play for as long as I can, maybe for fifteen years. I think that’s the most I’ll have before this knee finally gives out. Then I’ll retire. I promise you, the next time I return to Japan for good, I’ll have conquered the world.”

A brief silence followed.

“And,” I said, “You expect me to just wait for you?”

Oikawa winced. He’d realized what he’d asked of me– to wait fifteen years for him to retire– to give up the prime of my life for him– was impossible; a fantasy he had needed to believe to go on chasing his dreams where he knew I couldn’t follow. 

He’d realized that he truly had to choose.

He really thought that, the idiot. 

I shoved him with my shoulder.

“Oikawa, you dumbass–”

“Mean!”

“–you actual moron. Didn’t I just say that I’m not done beating you yet?” 

“Iwa-chan?”

I had to smile at the childlike hope on his face.

“So you’re finally going pro. You don’t think I saw that coming? You don’t think I know what that means? I’m not gonna let you conquer the world by yourself, idiot. Oikawa, I took that internship in California. I’m going to be a trainer for the Japanese national team one day.” 

“You–” Oikawa spluttered, “you knew I’d–”

“I never doubted it, dumbass.” I ground my knuckles into his chest. “So, go claim your kingdom, Alexander the Great. Go run for your dreams. Keep your eyes on those foolish stars of yours, and don’t look back. I’ll be right beside you, even if you can’t always see me. I’ll always find a way.”

I shoved him again, and he shoved me back. 

Then he hugged me tight in the middle of that empty row of seats, and our teammates looked up curiously from below, wondering what the hell was taking us so long. 

“Someday,” he said, “I’ll be back for good. Someday we’ll never have to wonder about the next time we get to see each other. We’ll come home to each other every single day.”

“Someday, maybe,” I agreed, “but don’t you use it as an excuse to retire early. You’d better take care of your body, dumbass. And if I hear about you trying to play through an injury, I’ll kill you myself. I’ll be checking in on you to make sure.”

In response, Oikawa gave a soft, happy laugh.

“I’ll take care of myself, Iwa-chan. Things are different now. I have a lot more to lose, a lot of good things to protect. I know that. Trust me.”

And I did.

The gym had all but cleared out. The rest of the Totsuka team now approached us, coming to claim Oikawa for the ride home. 

But when we stood up to meet them, Oikawa said, “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be staying in Hachiouji for a bit longer.”

And afterward, we’d do the stretches everyone else had already finished while we had been talking. We’d meet up with the team later for lunch. Then we’d head back to my place and finally shower, and after drying off we’d promptly fall asleep, too exhausted from the game to try anything memorable. 

We’d wake up after six, the sky already dark, and he’d ask, “Where did all that time go? I could have sworn it was just morning,” and I’d say, “Guess it passes quickly when you’re sleeping like a baby. And drooling like one,” and he’d grumble, “Well, I just thought we had longer than that.” 

And we’d climb onto the roof and drink hot corn soup and _chuhai_ out of cans from the vending machine down the street, looking out over the rooftops bearing their final little piles of melting snow until dusk finally turned into night. I’d kiss him for a while there and his lips would taste sharp and sweet with the plum-flavored alcohol. 

Then I’d ask, “What do you want to do,” and he’d say, “I don’t care, so long as it’s with you.” So I’d make him watch _Godzilla vs. Mothra_ with me since he’d never seen it before, and he’d listen to me explain the finer points of the plot with his head on my lap and his arms around my waist.

By the time we were done it would really be getting late. 

We’d make the trek to the train station that was so familiar to us by now. And once again I’d follow his shape as it disappeared among the other bodies into the brightly lit interior of the train car, and I’d linger on the platform as the doors swung shut, the pneumatic brakes hissed, and the train lumbered off into the night. 

I would close my eyes, and breathe in the mechanical smell of the train station on the cool air. I would think to myself, _Fifteen years. All we have to do is make it, for fifteen years._ And I whispered another goodbye that stung like the stench of smoke.

It was all right though, because I knew he’d always come back to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys.🥺 I can't believe this is almost finished. Thank you thank you thank you for reading this far and putting up with the wait between chapters. Thanks for all the hits on the last update... Every time I think you guys could be doing literally anything else with you're free time and you're choosing to spend it in this tiny world that I kind of created. Y'all are seriously the best.
> 
> Twitter: @KMyuutsu


	12. Okaeri

The autopiloting system chimed, and momentarily distracted me from my thoughts. 

_“A faster route to Tokyo Narita has been found,”_ the pleasant artificial voice announced, _“Would you like to take it?”_

“Sure,” I said, “why not?”

A white circle chased its tail on the display for a brief moment, and then the route on the screen rewrote itself. 

A memory flashed through my mind: Oikawa and me, sophomore year of university, doubling back on the country road to buy a paper map when the GPS had lost signal. It's harder to get lost these days, but I’m sure Oikawa will always find a way.

The car display chimed gently again. 

This time, the AI said, “ _Phone call from Tohru Oikawa."_

It was about time. I accepted the call.

Oikawa’s voice lilted through the soundsystem as clearly as though he were standing right in front of me. I could almost picture him wandering the bustling airport halls, searching the overhead signs for Baggage Claim. 

“Iwa-chan!”

“Hey, you. Just got off the plane, huh?”

“Yeah. I wanted to call you as soon as I landed. But it might be a while. I checked five bags. That reminds me, there’s room in your trunk, isn’t there?”

I glanced behind me.

“Um… the back seats might have to go down. But I think so.”

I heard him sigh in relief over the line. Three years ago, you could still hear a _whoosh_ of static through the mic on some of the older systems when people breathed directly into them. But that was a thing of the past now, as were charging cables, rigid displays, 4G networks, storage limitations, and the sound of the idling car engine. 

I glanced at the numbers in the corner of the nav screen.

“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” I said, “Get a cart for all those bags, okay?”

“I know, Iwa-chan,” he said, and I could hear the pout in his voice, “I always do, don’t I?”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m just excited to see you.”

The car switched on its own turn signal, accelerated smoothly, and changed lanes. 

“You too. How was your flight?”

Jostling and hasty apologies from Oikawa’s end of the line. He must have recovered his first suitcase.

“Not too bad. I slept through some of it.”

“Did you eat?”

“No. You know I can’t stand airplane food.”

I clicked my tongue disapprovingly. 

“Come to think of it,” he said, “Did you bring any snacks, Iwa-chan? I’m starving.”

I glanced over at the biodegradable shopping bag on the passenger’s seat bulging with milk bread, onigiri, and energy bars. 

“Don’t worry. I remembered.”

“Thank God.” Then, “Oh, crap, Iwa-chan, all of my bags just came out at once. I’m going to grab them. I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Dumbass.”

The call ended, and the phone screen reverted back to the home image: Mina’s kids arranged on their living room sofa pulling faces at the camera. The car slowed and pulled up alongside a million others on the highway. 

Traffic. That would never change. 

News of Oikawa’s retirement had made waves throughout the volleyball world, but I’d known before just about anyone else. Fifteen years: he’d been dead right about that from the start. And yet it had gone by in the blink of an eye.

Fifteen years of emails. Of texts and photographs. Of messages through the countless mobile platforms that rose and fell. Of hotel rooms we’d shared that I remembered more vividly than the countries in which they were located. We’d each taken the twenty-something hour flight between Tokyo and Buenos Aires alone about a hundred times– the same flight Oikawa had boarded just over a day ago. 

On one such occasion, Mina had come with me to see Oikawa off at the airport and he had said to her, “Take care of him while I’m gone.” And Mina, her one-year-old daughter tucked in her left arm, had smiled and waved as though to say, _always have, always will_. 

Fifteen years that encompassed the 2021 Olympics, where Oikawa and I first faced each other on a stage atop the world. Fifteen years that saw the beginning and end of the pandemic that had put all of human life on pause, that stretch of two whole years we never saw each other that very nearly broke us. Fifteen years of crying over long-distance phone calls, unable to bear another instant apart, while remembering that no moment is, in and of itself, too much to endure. 

Within that time, I’d graduated college and finished that internship in Irvine. A Supreme Court case had legalized same-sex marriage in Japan. I’d had that talk with my father, and once more with Oikawa’s family. And then finally, on that clear day seven years ago, standing on a grassy hill, I’d slid a golden band onto his finger. 

It was hard to believe we were really twenty years old once, lying in my tiny student apartment as dusk fell in March, touching one another for the first time.

And, of course, there had been all the other moments that didn’t have much to do with us at all. Aoba Johsai, our former high school, had made it to nationals in Takeru’s second year. Kai Okada was still playing for Japan. Sugiyama, the otaku, after burning out of a professional video game league, had become a popular streamer thanks to what his more insightful followers would describe as an unexpected wholesomeness, a warmth and caring in a world too often dominated by blustering toughness and cynicism. 

Shikichi, the bratty benchwarmer, had stepped to the helm at Shikichi Motors after his father’s stroke, and within a year had announced the advent of a new humanitarian branch of the company, whose mission statement included combating harassment and bullying in schools. And Mina, my friend Mina, had secured a position at a top law firm in Tokyo after graduation, only to leave a few years later to start her own practice with her former classmate, Kumiko. 

Fifteen years passed this way, and then one late evening in October, he’d called me in faltering tones to tell me that what he’d predicted after our last game in college had finally come to pass: he would no longer be able to play competitive volleyball. Every day was a bit harder than the last. And I’d sat down on the edge of the bed that was too big for me alone. I’d tapped the camera on my phone like I could touch him on the other side, though it was morning already in Buenos Aires. 

I’d said to him the words I’d whispered in my heart since the day he’d left; the same words that the crowd had chanted in Tokyo as he’d walked onto the Olympic court in 2021 at the height of his prime: _Oikawa, come home._

Good friends have come and gone. Some friendships were deeper than others. Some ended too soon. Some even changed the course of my life for good, like comets turning each other around at a single point in infinity, never to cross paths again. 

And so every day I thank the stars that, somehow, Oikawa and I managed to pull one another into orbit, into some kind of an eternal binary: sometimes far, sometimes near, but always, always together, until night really comes for the both of us. 

We’d spent New Year’s Eve together in 2025, watching the fireworks shoot off every floor of Taipei 101. And later that night, lying awake, he’d asked, “Iwa-chan, how do you think we’re going to die?”

I’d rolled over grouchily and asked him to tell me what he thought, since it had obviously been on his mind. And he’d been only too happy to comply.

“Picture it,” he’d said gleefully, “We’re a hundred and ten years old. That night, there’s supposed to be a meteor shower. We step out into our backyard, and we wait two hours, hand in hand, waiting to catch a shooting star. And finally, we see it: the star streaks through the sky, beautiful and brilliant. We gasp in awe. We’re so glad we waited for it, we say, as we’re going to bed. But as we sleep, the meteor enters the atmosphere. It gathers speed and momentum, and the earth pulls it in, and it lands, by now a white-hot ball of fire, on our house. We never know what hit us. Our worn-out bodies are obliterated in the very same instant, and we never know a single second without each other. And then the world goes on, and the universe resets, and we do the whole thing all over again.”

And I’d bitten back a smile and said, “You’ve always been a hopeless dreamer.”

Time. We experience every second only as it passes behind us. We don’t really live our lives as much as we watch it go by through the rear window, driving toward a future where the only thing certain is decay: the pear rolling off of the edge of the European oil painting and bursting on the floor. The grapes and plums going mushy in the mouths of flies. We only have the briefest of moments to love, and to be loved. And yet most of us only experience paradise for an instant. 

Yet we are allowed back time and time again through the doorway that is memory. We can return to the moments that left searing pictures in our minds as they died away into the past. That’s how I think of the last fifteen years I spent with Oikawa. I only saw the Oikawa of _now_ in the briefest of moments compared to the interminable stretches in between. 

In these times, I would visit memories that were years old– of a past Oikawa, an Oikawa who had become someone I had never met. And so after a while I stopped caring who he was, this man I love more than I can say. 

I remember him at six years old, holding my hand as we walked home together. At seventeen, crying at the end of our last high school volleyball match. At twenty, his teeth bumping against mine on an empty, snowy soccer pitch. I love each of his one hundred eighty-five centimeters, each of his eighty-two kilograms, and each second of his thirty five years. And would you believe, after so many years, that I still don’t feel a day over seventeen in my heart? I still don’t know if he’s the one the universe intended for me, but he’s the one I’d choose for myself, over and over again.

I’d love him even if I didn’t know this day would come: when I’d drive him back to the apartment we’d bought together, and we wouldn’t automatically start counting how many hours we had left. Oikawa will unpack all of those ridiculous suitcases into the closet that’s been half-empty for the last ten years. I’ll fall asleep next to him every night and wake up in the morning to the buzz of his electric razor, and steal into the bathroom to watch him brush his teeth and perform the twelve steps of his Korean skincare routine. At the day’s end, I’ll be sitting at the kitchen table finishing up my diet and fitness spreadsheets on my laptop, and happen to glance through the doorway to find him standing there.

Time. Maybe that’s all paradise really is. Enough time with the people you love. And it’s a paradise you have to create for yourself. The average Japanese male lives to eighty-five. It might be even higher now. Most people don’t even meet their partners until their twenties. A fifth of a lifetime– it’s a small price to pay, really, for what comes next. 

At last, the car merges onto the off-ramp for International Arrivals and creeps along the passenger receiving area. I scan the pavement looking for either Oikawa or a large pile of designer luggage. 

Then there’s the tap on my window, the muffled shout of “Iwa-chan!” through the glass. 

I throw the hazard lights on. Manually brake so suddenly that the guy in the car behind me blares his horn in fury. Stumble onto the sidewalk, stars gathering at the edge of my vision, my heart aching with fullness. 

And is he happy to see me, too? Happy isn’t the right word. He bounds toward me like a puppy, his eyes streaming, and catches me in an embrace so tight that it’s hard to breathe, his suitcases forgotten. I kiss him right there, in the center of the chaos, without caring who might see. I am in his arms now, and I will never leave again. 

My Oikawa has come home to me, finally, for the last time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh. wow. i can't believe this is finally finished.
> 
> if you're reading this now, thank you for waiting so long for the final chapter and for the happy ending that was promised. the delay was...it was 50/50 life stuff happening, and procrastinating because it was so hard to say goodbye. i'm sorely tempted to keep on writing iwaoi - but it definitely was hard work and i don't know if i'll ever really have the bandwidth to do it, so we'll see.
> 
> as always, kudos, comments, and shares are appreciated! if you're on twitter say hello - @KMyuutsu
> 
> thanks again for reading!  
> sayounara!
> 
> Milly


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